Poem by Michael Philips
Your gentle yawn
while reading the sports section
as they fill your prescription.
A light scratch of your nose
as you read the review of the
newest hippest band out of L.A.
while your new tires are installed.
Waiting is the dullness of a brown sparrow
flitting to the next wire,
the line of ants on a tree trunk.
Not so bad
if you have something inoperable
and know that boredom
is a luxury for the living.
The forgettable moments the doctor consults
with the nurse in the hallway,
the trees from outside swaying in the glass picture frame,
the shoe scuff patterns on the linoleum.
I didn’t know the cloud I floated on
until it was yanked away
and I see the dark rocky ground
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