The waiting is bearable only because I know
that every counting is a counting-down,
one second sooner to your coming
coming. Soon. By mind-magic
my ticking enemy spits time
almost like lullaby,
like an overworked governess
waiting to rest, wanting
like I want your arrival. Soon.
In this light that old face is no monster,
its hum-and-drone monologue less
a reminding that you are not here than soft
One more day one more day one.