I seem to spend my whole life waiting—
waiting on money to come in, on mail to arrive,
on my partner to return from her date
with the lover I will soon find out about.
What’s waiting but sitting in Purgatory
if not Limbo? I’d like to climb a lamppost
with a polar bear cub and hum sea shanties
till the Fire Brigade brings me down.
I’d like to knife my partner, the postman,
my publisher, the bank teller, my neighbour.
One day I’ll emigrate to Antarctica
and befriend the penguins there. I’ll write
a treatise on solitude and onanism,
on the pleasures of roaring at icebergs.
Right now I want to run through the streets
with an axe, grinning, but hacking no one.
I want to roll around in the melting snow.
Waiting? It’s all the time on Death Row.
It’s the thoughts of a tree in December.
Do you have any idea how ice forms,
or how a mind can shape and fire a bullet?