by Janet Hanna

For what exactly am I waiting?
The grocery line to hurry
The tiny age lines around my mouth to harden
The friend who doesn’t return a call
An enemy to soften
The finality of Armageddon
My clothes to dry
Justice, perhaps, even world peace
The heat to come on
A Summer vacation
My child to be grateful
The coffee to perk.
My mother’s approval,
I used to think,
Was worth the wait.

But the days and months and years
Rumble by, and still I wait
For my hair to curl
My stretch marks to widen
My car to warm up
My guests to arrive
A lover to climax
My Christmas tree needles to drop
An egg to fry
The commercial to finish
The movie to begin
My period to come
My period to end.

I wait for the recognition
I believe should be mine.
For the strength
To finish Joyce’s Ulysses
For the traffic light to turn green
For the garage mechanic to line the brakes
To understand myself.

God’s promise of paradise is a possibility,
But I reject its arduous journey.
It can be such hard work to wait
For my fingernails to dry
The other shoe to drop
The line at Disney World to shorten
Beckett’s Godot
The check in the mail
The Second Coming
The pot to boil
A bubble to burst.

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