Waiter - Poem by Lawrence Beck
Perhaps you can suggest some things for me
To do as I endure the month until I fly to you.
Good news of that sort, the chance to see
And hear and hold you for the first time in
Almost a year, arrives as pleasure, then turns
Painful as the intervening days and hours
Drag their feet before descending to a crawl.
I'll go to work.I still must pay my bills,
But I'll be out of sorts and silent, cursing
Tasks which usually don't bother me at all.
I'll mow the lawn.Why must it always grow?
I'll buy my groceries, cook my meals.I'll
Tidy up, becoming ever more impatient
For that moment when I reach the gate
And hear you call my name, and sense that
I'm where I should be with nothing
Left to do.
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