When you wait for movement,
When you stand on your toes
And stretch your neck and squint
To see the horizon,
To see that for which you had hoped,
The peristalsis of time slows
To a crawl and sleeps
Or at best slips and slogs
Like a slug along the sidewalk.
Time, like an old man bent
Under the weight and burden
Of age and waiting and hope again,
Again deferred,
Shuffles and schleps
With that for which we long
Like he’s carrying lead
From bathroom to sink,
To recliner, and back to bed
To doze in dreamless sleeps
Through grey days
And moonless nights
As we wait.
© Randall Edwards 2021.
Backward Mutters 