Waiting
by Craig Kirchner
I’ve been not so
patiently waiting
for about six
weeks for a long needle
to shoot goo into
my knees
which should allow
me to walk
without too much
pain until Christmas.
My soul mate has
been doing the Seinfeld routine,
It’s almost
bedtime, and you’ll sleep
through a 1/3 of
it. You watch an old movie
a day, that’s
another two hours,
they don’t hurt
while you’re writing.
I’m listening and
thinking about the big wait,
applying the
formula to the big picture,
more importantly
how many, how much,
until it doesn’t
matter, because you don’t know
and can’t follow
the logic.
I’ve been there
once, drug induced, not suicide.
It was painless,
the light was comforting,
like at the end
of the hall inviting,
demanding,
mysterious, but not scary,
I wanted to
continue, but I woke up.
I’m not going to
snort any more unknown shit
but I’m just
curious enough about that light,
that the wait
doesn’t frighten me anymore.
I want to see
where it leads, although it
probably just
turns off and you sleep the other 2/3’s.
Craig
Kirchner thinks of
poetry as hobo art, loves storytelling and
the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He has had two poems nominated
for the Pushcart,
and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After
a writing hiatus he
was recently published in Decadent
Review, Wild
Violet, Last
Leaves, Literary Heist, Ariel Chart, Cape Magazine, Flora
Fiction,
Young Ravens, Chiron Review, Yellow Mama, Valiant Scribe and
several dozen other
journals
