The Waiting Game Poem by Daniel P Martin

Waiting… what is it, if not a form of torture,
I sit, watching the clock plot its careful path like a ship in a windless ocean.

Pacing… Man’s only known solution,
What it achieves, who knows, but somehow it becomes compulsory.

Fidgeting… tantamount to prodding a tetchy lion,
Not a conscious act, but relentless, serving only to add to the general tension.

Watching… like that will help the kettle boil,
But who can resist the urge to keep checking; refresh refresh, refresh.

Waiting, just another tribulation in life,
But after all, that which does not kill us… and all those cheesy clichés!