Waiting Room

When times are dark and seem to be getting darker, sweet pastoral reflections feel a little disingenuous.

Waiting Room

Each of these lines contains five silent prayers,
accent falling on the silence. Rhyme scheme
is irregular as nothing is similar to anything.

Voice is only person – mask over my mouth
muffling words beyond hearing across vast
social distance – what little one can find to say.

Half a year now in the waiting room. Who can say
how much longer? The clock says only tick-tock,
heart says only lub-dup. What else can be said?

Wildfire will be quenched or wildfire will spread;
America will fall or will find some way forward.
The waiting room is empty but for the waiting.


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