waiting

worse than a crowded
hotel lobby, where
men hurt their arms
lifting bags far
too heavy, to impress
women thick with perfume
who stand pursed
expectantly–

worse than the spoiled
air fresheners of
hospitals, high on
morphine before they
shut their eyes and
close for the night
permanently–

worse than both of these
must be your waiting
quarter behind a boulder
made of steel

by now the
dust must be white
soot in the tomb
faces billowing
in Hiroshima clouds,
tumbling bodies
rolling into your
lungs from behind
the barbed wire

worse than wood and
nails, this charcoal
boulder, black with
the exploding ashes
of centuries, tumbling
and loud with bombs, the
violent sobs
of your Mother growing
louder each decade’s
24 hours.

worse than all this, yes:
did they give you chalk?
so that you
can etch all those wars
committed in your name
or false aliases.

worse than these things:
i read yesterday about a
man who emptied a bottle
of bleach on
a four year old girl
who wouldn’t stop crying.

don’t you see you have to
push harder
please
and in the meantime
save your servant