He Who Waits

Horatius Augustus was done.

He was done waiting

for others.

He was done 

placing high expectations

on anyone by himself.

He had been waiting

for almost two hours

and told himself

he would wait

only

five minutes more

and then

give up.

He cracked the knuckles

in his left hand 

with his right

and looked 

around

to see

if anyone 

was coming.

He looked at the 

ground between his

feet and brought 

his hands together 

as he breathed in deeply.

He looked up 

and his eyes

saw a figure moving

towards him

with a confident gait

that could not be impeded

by anything less

than death itself.

He breathed in

pulled his shoulders back

and cracked

the bones 

in his upper back.

His right hand reached

for the hard

bit of safety

resting against himself

a final assurance

in the case

of any eventuality.

The Wait

I am waiting for the sun

only to find I am waiting

for myself.

At the end of the day.

The sound of two boys running

echoed loudly through the room

of adults standing in line.

One woman worked the counter.

A mutual impatience filled our lungs.

The boys father told them

to sit down, be quiet.

They did no such thing.

His uniform was as exhausted

as his face. Only empty threats

remained as the children's voices

echoed farther and farther

into the minds of those listening.

Drops In a Bucket

drops of water slowly
fill the rusted bucket
one plink at a time.

the first one echoes
like a gong struck
in a concert hall.

the metallic sound
dies as drops fall
in a gathering pool.

it takes time and
patience, but soon
the bucket fills

to the brim
before the water
overflows

and slowly
soaks the ground
beneath.

patience
what a
dull virt
ue to be 
a practi
cioner of.