Waiting On The Ballet


On broken sofas
on hot mornings,
               afternoons,
               nights,
in
front of TV sets,
being stabbed by
the news—
you look at the
clock
it has no compassion,
just as the phone
has forgotten too:
you can see people
walking by
through your window,
the water boils
& its time for
another drink;
you can hear the
                    wind,
                    cranes,
                    exhausts,
yet no sound of comfort:
you water the fading
plant in the corner
hoping to keep it alive:
hoping to notice another
sound,
painting,
ass,
anything to keep you
off the turnbuckle—
it will come,
it will come,
it will come,
they say you can’t
stay down forever:
even the boxer only
has 10
& then he gets up
the loser
or
is carried away
& forgiven:
his job done.
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