waiting is hard as the days move around me
in whirling whirlpools
pulling me in and spinning
me around to a spot
different from where I stand now.
waiting is harder when my lips long
to stay on yours longer
than the brush you measure out to me
in rations; I can get some wonder bread,
but I sure can't get what I want.
waiting is even harder knowing that so much time
will pass that not much will
be unknown to discover,
and without contact, I fear,
less desirable traits may become intolerable.
waiting is what I have to do you say to me,
so my horses are held-
they are chomping at the bit
and kicking the shit out of each other,
but I have got them in some kind of harness.