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Waiting By The Watershed

Poised on edge of plastic chair 
scoping winterscape in 
rain filled graywashed scene. 

Seen through aluminum 
and green plastic verticals 
while drips, drip on. 

Must be fifty degrees. 
Must be nearing the 
end of everything. 

The patio is where the patients come 
to sit and smoke cigarettes 
and chat. 
Some cry 
because they hurt so bad 
they can no longer pretend 
not to. 

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED 

UNDER THE GRAY WET WINTER. 

To mourn the loss of expectation, 
of our grasp on the impermanent. 

Spiritual pilgrims in the cold church 
of those who love life 
no longer. 

I hear highway traffic and airplanes. 
I see dead trees 
and dying dreams. 

THIS IS WHERE WE HAVE GATHERED. 

Must be nearing the end 
of everything. 

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