A sonnet for waiting
(Though now I’m on the bus)
The hardened sidewalks seldom speak up for
Such harder sinews tightened shouldered ache
And as the weary words become more sore
The world beyond the concrete you forsake.
What happens in the weighted waiting hours
Seems massive. Mammoth monumental made
By eking out each minute o’rtowered and sours
As city sunsets steep in deeper shade.
The dark’ning sky blinks to each billboard’s glare
And still no moving on from stationed stop.
The listless crowd sulks tight to pavement square
They wish for refuge, refund, shoe to drop.
And yet some words through glowing phones confide
And to words of hope, a stopping bus is spied.
*Thanks to Erin Glass for suggestion the constraint of a sonnet for expunging the anxiety of waiting.