3319. AS THOUGH THE WAITING

AS THOUGH 

THE WAITING

We take the weave, the warp, the very

natural injury of time and thread it over

substance : 'little lamb, who made thee?',

'shall I wear my trousers rolled?', 'I wander

through these charter'd streets', and all the rest

of that. Idleness bemoans itself, as a claptrap

of little minds. And, nonetheless, as though

the waiting meant something  -  as though the

very waiting in and of itself held value  -  we,

stutteringly, travel on. Unlocking morning doors,

writing that note, brewing coffee on a lacquered

ledge. Sitting back. Swerving a yellow car through

some black and muddy traffic of valueless virtue.

-

Every time to go means getting where one's going.

-

Instead, I wallow. I watch the frozen Autumn

flower droop and crack its timely Death. Yes, 

yes, the season has held its court and you are

guilty! Found to be culpable, now even you,

oh Beauty, oh Life, oh all this thrust of Goodness,

must  -  by this decree  -  go! Take leave! Die off!