Poem On A Sunday #1 Poem by RIC BASTASA

nothing is really useless.
even those who only wait, has that function.
waiting.
and it is a sacrifice, just imagine
you, at the train station,
wanting to leave and be somewhere else,
yet you do what you are assigned to
do that whole week,

waiting. It saddens me.
I tremble to some extent.

Like a heavy thud
of impatient feet, throwing away the shoes
that serve no purpose.

on the other hand, i assure you,
everything has a purpose.
the cup, the saucer, the teaspoon
and the white
sugar & the coffee,
they blend and you take your day
sipping.

in your world,
there are lapses, something glitches
you see slipping moments,
and you sigh.

ah, do not worry,
they also do what you are supposed to do,
they serve us &
you serve them

a bowl of cherries, a can of laughter,
a nugget of wisdom,
and time

this time, we note what ponder can do,
what blankness can paint
what seeds can sorrow grow?