WAIT.
Dust in the sun
pavement warm,unemployed.
Day quiet, even birds
mime, glide like leaves.
The old men, shadows of them
leaning on walls, waiting
on wooden chairs, waiting.
Glasses of young, mild ale
entered into, remembered;
throats remembering too,
showing signs of it, the movement
breaking the journey's stillness.
A long wait, and birds
fly off in those throats
in all directions, leave their trails.
and an empy glass sometimes
finds dust settling upon it,
and shadows from sun falling
wait discreetly, wait wait
smell the appointment sidling up.
by Alex
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