Photograph ©Copyright by John-Ward Leighton
A POEM WAITING
Waiting
poses the question
of time passing
and trying to figure out
what happens next.
What determines the order?
Is time the only measurement?
Is there another force beyond
the linear force of time?
Is it, as the Muslim world say,
written?
Are we the only players
in a paint by numbers world?
Where was this poem hiding until now?
I sit here in my gaunch,
aimlessly correcting my text
letting this hidden poem
lead me where it will.
I’m half listening to
a jazz program
and trying to keep
my mind on what I’m thinking
like those times
when in the street
and a lady walks by
with a derriere
oh so neat
and I lose my train of thought.
The poem
wanders in some kind of
perverse fulfillment.
I have the urge
to fill some darkly hidden need
and even though my butt
has gone numb
searching out the words
like some bomb disposal team
in the middle of a mine field.
One wrong move and the poem
explodes into a million fragments
of misunderstood meaning.
I try complete the circle
but is it ever possible
to get back to where you started
only to know that all has changed
and there is still
a poem waiting?