I wait at the doctor's, the dentist.
I put up with Homeland Security at airports
to keep terrorists in ski masks away.
I wait in diners, by the cash register
for a table. I listen intently when
the owner asks if everything is okay.
I get in line for movies, Broadway plays,
the snake lines of Six Flags,
Oh, Batman and Robin, Scream Machine,
Oh, Congo Rapids, the closest I'll probably
ever get to Africa. I'm part of the hungry herd
that lines up in corrals at KFC and Wendy's.
I wait in bank lines, at the ER with an irregular
heartbeat; in court, for judges to get off the phone,
for lawyers stuck in traffic. Sometimes, I'm that lawyer.
(Not really. I'm never late. No one wants to
hear that, it's like the school attendance award).
I don't like to admit I pray for a giant snowfall
that shuts down the schools and work, for Governor
Christie to call a state of emergency so I can
shovel snow and try to get my small-ass snow blower
to work. I slow down for traffic lights that turn to yellow,
I wait for lights to return after blackouts so things
can return to normal, so food doesn't spoil.
I wait on cold platforms for NJ Transit.
I used to wait on platforms for the Long Island Railroad,
stations of the cross and double-crossed.
I still wait for a sign from God, I'm that gullible.
I wait for something better than H-Bombs because
the sun is thousands of H-Bombs going off every second.

It's no wonder outer space is a void.
I've learned to kill time because time is killing me.
I wait for miracle cures—because, it seems,
we're so close—so that we can live as long as
people did in the Bible. Honk like a traffic jam,
if you love Jesus. At least, I don't have to wait
for something as wonderful as sliced Wonder Bread
with its red, blue, and yellow balloons on the package,
a breaded circus, the hurdy-gurdy man as baker.
Tonight, I wait for the wind to push white clouds away,
for stars behind the clouds to step up to the footlights.
May I say I don't mind waiting for you.

Author: Bob Rosenbloom

Photo: Nathan Dumlao on Unsplash

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