I never taught myself to wait. Pacing, back and forth. Sluggish minutes crawling ‘cross my back. Waiting is an itch to weigh, it’s to rein the rain or survey sand. Waiting is a fire burning cold.
I remember how my mother told me she would pick me up at five o’clock and how I fumed when she arrived four minutes and twenty three seconds later than agreed. I had counted cars and told her just how many that had passed.
I never taught myself to wait, but I learned to count.
mirrored in asphalt
headlights passing — lightworm
snaking home to eat
Today Imelda is guest hosting for haibun Monday at dVerse, and the subject is waiting.