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.