July 4, 1993
Up in the corner –
window, doorway, wall –
sits the spider,
in his web.
Outside, on the bench,
I sit, waiting,
friend or stranger,
to come along.
A plop on the cobbles,
it’s not what I thought –
no birds, but just a branch
above, and then suddenly
a slender arrow slides across the stones,
as if on roller skates,
scales the sheerness of the plaster wall,
pauses, half hiding, in a crack,
waiting for me to go away
to see what he will do…the lizard.
One is always waiting.
Not just for the bus, the dentist,
for the boys to come to dinner.
Not just the mailman
or for spring to come again
(no! that’s anticipation –
there’s a difference!).
Waiting for a storm to break,
for the next flash of lightning.
Waiting in the deep of night
for calmer thoughts to drive away
the ever-building clouds of worry.
Waiting for something to change – but what?
Waiting for Godot?
Waiting for what will come –
waiting in the end to stop waiting.
For the known,
and the unknown.
Waiting is a sinking into the well
below the outer surface of oneself.
Is moving inward –
not giving, not receiving.
Letting thoughts take shape.
The periods of waiting,
filled with smaller periods of waiting,
filled with other shorter periods
a box within a box, within a box,
with the biggest box of all
encompassing the beginning and the end.
And now, 2021, we’re waiting still.
To return to what we consider normality.
Waiting for an enemy to disappear.
One never stops