Waiting Room
Bespectacled and in a white coat,
he who is awaited will peer through a gap in the door,
and then there will arise
one from the throng.
And before the door shall have closed behind that one,
each of the crouching throng
will have crept back into a magazine,
into a paper, a band-aid for thoughts,
a marriage tent of coloured paper.
And, while behind that door happens
what has to happen,
those who crouch behind their paper umbrellas
will perform strange rites,
will enter into marriage with cuff-links,
solve murders with shampoo.
The Horizontal Bar
Swinging up on the bar of the better self,
You do not last long.
Your arms are too weak.
The grassy riverbanks beckon.
There, as you walk, your shoes giggle.
It's nice to sit there.
The river draws past; it all draws.
Even back to the horizontal bar.