Boredom
Waiting is.
The most random pile of dishrags.
Follicles of hair splitting.
Nothing moving,
Just deep, impatient sensations.
Waiting is someone similar to me.
Dragging around a laundry basket all the time,
And it’s a horrible thing,
All the clothes you tried to donate or toss.
Follicles splitting.
Spit spraying at the blank wall.
The dishrags come to life in a weird way.
Wagging their tails excitedly.
Waiting is…
Dripping, drooping cheeks that were fine an hour ago.
Then they called out my name.
And all those weird associations were weird and made me lonely, yet dreamy.
Waiting always bubbles up to the surface sometime.
For all the others too.
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