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waiting
with diaper on 
for this woman to get up 
off the kitchen floor and
stop bleeding while a man 
hovers over her with grimace 
and clinched fist

waiting
for our first-grade teacher 
to stop crying 
over the P.A. announcement 
that the president 
has just been assassinated 
in Dallas

waiting
on the spirit of Christmas 
to return days after the news 
that mother's favorite song "You Send Me" 
had just been shot and killed
a few blocks from our home

waiting
in the backseat of a Packard 
for the policeman to stop screaming 
at my father as urban soldiers 
toss fire from their hands 
in our neighborhood just outside of Watts

waiting
at LAX for Wilt the Stilt 
to come back and finish 
signing autographs after 
some idiot just called him a freak

waiting 
for the bowtie and scowl 
to let go of my arm so I 
can shake the hand of 
the Greatest of All Time 
as he starts his comeback 
with an exhibition bout 
in East Los Angeles

waiting
with eighteen-year-old trembling knees 
for that sheriff deputy 
to remove his pump action shotgun 
from my temple

waiting 
in the delivery room 
for the wrong woman 
to have my child

waiting 
at a motel 
for the right woman 
to find the time 
to slip away

waiting
on the side of 
the ninety-one freeway 
for a motorcade to pass 
shortly after the funeral 
of a former president 
shamed by the Watergate scandal
 
waiting
and looking 
while holding onto 
the entry gate at 875 S. Bundy Dr. 
for some sign of what really 
happened that night

waiting 
along with F.E.M.A. and the Red Cross
for the distraught woman
to come with us to safety 
days after the Northridge earthquake 
leveled her million-dollar home

waiting
at the hospital
for my first grandchild 
to be born while her father
who's been convicted of battery
is nowhere to be found

waiting, waiting
seems like I'm always
waiting
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