The Waiting Again

This eye encased
in brick—not a bearing
wall but for show. This eye
above 

the bar before me
is not staring down but straight
ahead till remodeling
becomes 

a plan. And I wait around
another corner. Some string
quartet plays in another room. Not
what I’m waiting for.
A march 

of Absolut bottles—Apeach, Kurant,
Mandrin, Mango, Pears, Peppar, Raspberri,
Ruby Red. Someone has taken
the time to line them up in alphabetical
order. Not 

what I’m waiting for. I would never wait
for the bottle—the bottle would never wait 

for me. That one’s over. This one
is an outpouring
of dark song—always worth it.
Always an incurable
gaze, mine.

One thought on “The Waiting Again

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