At least it’s not like waiting for Godot: well there’s
sanity in where we wait, we didn’t need create an
atmosphere or avid mates and ersatz reputations
for equating personal dreams; a theme is missing
where the empty air resounds a-drone in epithets,
there’s space to wear the loneliness which will be
filled - perchance she’s feeling much the same or
warily proclaiming it upon her way back home
It’s in that frame of providence which we digress -
our conversation wrests th’ view eschewed; she’ll
soon appear we say, there is no way she’d let it’s
imminence be sullied or delayed; so that’s where
we leave Godot to wallow in its wake, their torpid
conversation played th’ theme into an early grave
But hark - I think we hear her car - she’s here …
© 19 May 2017, I. D. Carswell
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