Waiting games

There’s the kind of post offices
delicatessens, banks, commercials
the waiting on a letter
that never comes
on a bill
the waiting on a birthdate
on easter or autumn—
a license to drive or drink
to no longer be a teen—
there’s the kind of waiting
in between marriage
and divorce
employment and severance
child and puberty
mind and senility—
the waiting for what
a monk knows
and the
swollen woman
the clerk who hates his counter
counting the minutes
of oblivion

but the kind of waiting
that occupies me
is that of a con
striding the earth’s axis
waiting to be
his cheek forever
turned away from
the sun

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