Waiting for the washer to finish its final rinse. Waiting for Brendan to fall asleep beside his Papi. The world is full of waiting tonight. Waiting for an antacid to take effect. Waiting for a poem to form. Waiting for the waiting to cease its waiting, its process of wading within small creeks seeking polished stones. As a form of closure.
(—or waiting for the pear to form)
(—or waiting for the howling dogs next door to be free from their fenced-in lot)
•86/ Like the poets, he often steps into moments of waiting.
The meditative pause between past and present.
The lull of wind.
The wind in the backyard pines.
Himself below. Listening to the green pulse overhead.
As a continual flotsam of stars foaming over the horizon.
And he lies below taking in the full being of night tide, the weight of existence which mortals take for granted, rolling their lives into tobacco papers, sharing a stub of a joint out of rebellion, rather than thinking of the consequences or the memories outside their shells of now, the blur of identity focusing down on their proof of being.
He soaks in his moment: simply being. Exhales.