Waiting on the six-string orchestra
of the gods,
waiting on the tiny cat to growl,
waiting on yesterday to become
tomorrow,
waiting on the vacant stars to fall
from the sky,
waiting on the 4am lay,
waiting on the children to start
playing again,
waiting on the people to let go
of advancement—and advance
themselves,
waiting on the caramel stardust
of Mars,
waiting on the words to stop and
the bombs to blast,
waiting on the footsteps to be
silent,
waiting on the angels to fall over
drunk,
waiting on her to see me again,
waiting on the lightly marinated
blues,
waiting on eternity,
waiting on the sleepy armageddon,
waiting for the
right
time
to
bring
this one
to
an
end.
–Brenton Booth