Random Acts of Poetry

Random Acts of Poetry

The Waiting Place

Every duplicate afternoon,
he, unnoticed,
passes beneath
the bridges of salesmen,
difference makers,
those who adore
both the sheep and the snake.
He of the carefully blank face.

Slowly, the temperature rises,
warm rains come,
the world sweats,
soaking empty factories
and detested creatures.
They have a certain peace,
hidden in rusty pivots,
in dropped feathers.

Water falls at night,
a monsoon, or God's mouth
strangely salivating
over so much grinding
and brick dust.
Torrents pool and drain,
washing years away
but bringing nothing.
_