waiting

I was the garden and the gun. But I grew crooked, a simple

engrained failure, even if my aim was true. Forgotten bullets

in an empty chamber, culled and rotting. What is left to hold

onto when all the corners have been cut. Can I believe my

doubt? I was absent in a tender age before the river left.

Beginning along the path of least resistance, roaming

downhill. It becomes worn, the banks root-bound with life. I

will wait until it cracks.

I am waiting for the thunder, another dry heave, another

empty promise, another ruinous blue sky.

Who is it that I talk to when the air is stalled silent and white.

Who is asking for flowers with caught breath and proud flesh.

Who's hand has drawn lines, finger shaped in the gathered

condensation. The silence of ice undisturbed, until restless it

shifts into silence. There is no revenge for this present.

The veneer is peeling away from the stainless steel sink,

too many egg shells, too many wine glasses, too many ash

trays smashed. Too many cigarettes left to burn forgotten.

Stained, scarred, too much everything weakened it's

avocado green resolve to conform to the swollen

presswood. Everything is always waiting to feel

.