(Hope this is not trash) Poetry

Waiting III

This has become
an art --

you have to practice this
in patience
to make it
          perfect.

The chronic watching
of timepieces
is not easy.

Who says
it is not difficult
to see the hands
becoming a blur --

Where you do not know
which hand
tells of his coming?

Even the tocks wait
for the ticks to come

Even the moon waits
for its time to rise
after the sun sinks
which waits
for the moon to set
before it climbs.

You have to feel
as if
minutes do not matter

because it is only
a matter of minutes.

What is the use
of waiting
for him by the phone --
it will not give you flowers
for him by the door --
it will not give you smiles
for him by the bed --
it will not give you something
          to remember him by
for him who will not give you
          salvation.

Yet,
she plays this game.

There's her piece
          on the chess board.
His is missing.
It must have disappeared
          along the way.

She has marked
two points
in which they will stand.

(They are near enough
distances).

She has to count
the moves in her mind
in time to her
          heartbeat.

She expects the other
to move over.
She has to

Wait.
Does she realize that

these are
two lives
standing on parallel lines
that will never
meet, intersect?

Even so,
there's always hope
in waiting.