David Wood (07 April 1950 / London)
Standing on my front step
Leaning against the door frame
I wait with frozen hands for -
The post man.
The streets stray cat sits on
Number eighteen’s window ledge
Licking its cold body after
Last night’s supper of rodents.
Smoke rises from tall chimneys
Standing to attention in monotonous row.
Cars drive down the street going
To work in the factories only to wait
In cold car parks for their owners return.
Today I am waiting for a letter,
Its journey across the country
Being unassumingly ordinary.
Minutes tick by as the world turns
I clench my fists then rub my hands.
The clock bends time slowly at first
As I wait and wait and wait.
Time slowly dripping off the wall clock
Eating into the day. Time marching on.
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