.
Just Waiting
.
I was waiting for something,
it may have been a bus
but I knew that I had been
waiting all my life,
for something:
‘You asshole’ she screamed
at me for stashing stolen
good in our home:
‘You asshole’ I have heard
many times, as I waited,
alone, as cities crumble and
hungry, desperate children
lay in dusty ghost streets
of forgotten speech,
maybe it was a train I
was waiting for,
or a sign of some kind,
or something,
I don’t know why I’m
waiting,
but that’s what
I’m doing,
right now,
waiting,
I am.
.
Look
.
The calendars bares no teeth
and coldness is unwanted
furniture,
the postman brings no summer
and the window frames are
rotting, the doors are hanging
loose and the wind cries mercy:
I drink wine,
quietness is prominent and I’m
told flowers don’t
dream,
that thoughts fall like burnt
rice-paper:
I stay solid, cool,
my footsteps are virginal,
invisibility guides me,
each step
scorched with
you
and
I.
.
John D Robinson is a UK based poet: he has published numerous books of poetry: he has also published a novel of fiction and a collection of short stories.
North of Oxford 