Waiting...
The Waiting Room 8/28/2005 11:45 AM
We are all acting,
embracing roles in utter devotion
until it becomes our subtle dogma
a few dare to change the lines
of the script with mild inquisition
a voice at the door of the theatre says
look busy cause the lord watches,
break a leg the boss is watching
take out your hands mother is watching
construct in haste a conversation,
for the girl in pink is watching.
inside the black suit he wears like a skin,
the boss's small heart beats monotonously
look cold distant but alert
they should always think you're watching.
We are all waiting.
musing ourselves and our hands
with countless verbs of our choice
carefuly selected from a shiny dictionary
In the waiting room assembled in comfort
we have picked our tools of killing time
the boy with freckles plays with a boat
perhaps he awaits his union with the sea
an aged man tired and weary sweeps
the floor till it sounds squeaky clean
a gentlemen in black admires his yellow pencil
and with his scientific calculator
even he is waiting for real numbers.
8/28/2005 11:51 AM
wait why am i talking about you?
when i am the one most eagerly waiting
with sweaty palms and rocking knees.
Something must break the ice...
strangle this suburban stagnancy
which so closely resembles serenity.
my angst skates on the hard ice,
it is a little girl with earmuffs
whistling away some dead anthem or tune
that still carries the echo of life
of glory of war of picnics and of victory
that little girl is my silent desperation
to the people watching she is just a girl
flying on white in yellow naivety
she enjoys their delusion for it obscures
the furious dance of her feet
that little girl is my thought
skating on the ice of snoring society
she carves it slowly and patiently
carefull not to crack the frozen segments
shrewd wise and clever is the little girl
for she knows that waves of change
must be small strong and many
what use if the ship were to drown
in the storm of recreation?
She knows and she skates and she sees
all around her to be a long rain dance
a parade procession and preparation
only her eye sees the finger crossed
inside the pockets of insulated coats
All except the little girl are waiting
no perhaps even she is waiting
for someone to fall and break the ice.
We are all acting,
embracing roles in utter devotion
until it becomes our subtle dogma
a few dare to change the lines
of the script with mild inquisition
a voice at the door of the theatre says
look busy cause the lord watches,
break a leg the boss is watching
take out your hands mother is watching
construct in haste a conversation,
for the girl in pink is watching.
inside the black suit he wears like a skin,
the boss's small heart beats monotonously
look cold distant but alert
they should always think you're watching.
We are all waiting.
musing ourselves and our hands
with countless verbs of our choice
carefuly selected from a shiny dictionary
In the waiting room assembled in comfort
we have picked our tools of killing time
the boy with freckles plays with a boat
perhaps he awaits his union with the sea
an aged man tired and weary sweeps
the floor till it sounds squeaky clean
a gentlemen in black admires his yellow pencil
and with his scientific calculator
even he is waiting for real numbers.
8/28/2005 11:51 AM
wait why am i talking about you?
when i am the one most eagerly waiting
with sweaty palms and rocking knees.
Something must break the ice...
strangle this suburban stagnancy
which so closely resembles serenity.
my angst skates on the hard ice,
it is a little girl with earmuffs
whistling away some dead anthem or tune
that still carries the echo of life
of glory of war of picnics and of victory
that little girl is my silent desperation
to the people watching she is just a girl
flying on white in yellow naivety
she enjoys their delusion for it obscures
the furious dance of her feet
that little girl is my thought
skating on the ice of snoring society
she carves it slowly and patiently
carefull not to crack the frozen segments
shrewd wise and clever is the little girl
for she knows that waves of change
must be small strong and many
what use if the ship were to drown
in the storm of recreation?
She knows and she skates and she sees
all around her to be a long rain dance
a parade procession and preparation
only her eye sees the finger crossed
inside the pockets of insulated coats
All except the little girl are waiting
no perhaps even she is waiting
for someone to fall and break the ice.
posted by Newt at 11:45 AM
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