Waiting, waiting, waiting

alone on the bench of life.

The game races around me

as I sit there unnoticed,

caught on the vortex edge,

waiting to be sucked down

into a drain of grief.

 

She has been gone hours,

much longer than before.

What is taking so long?

Every one is busy and

though kind and gentle,

I feel terribly alone,

waiting for the gurney

to bring her back to me

from the theater.

 

The waiting over but

still she is hardly here.

Pale on her bed, tubes

and monitors drip and beep.

There is nothing for me to fix.

Just waiting to play my part

when called from the bench.

 

 

David Garlick, Victoria, February, 1996