Different Slants

By Robert M. Katzman © 2/17/12 

Staring out my kitchen window

Black coffee’s steam wafting ’round my

Sleepy coffee-colored eyes

I see the eastern sun rising

Shooting black shadows to the west

Silhouetting

A railroad crossing’s barriers

I hear birdsong

The same birdsong

Sometimes a red Cardinal flitting by

Always a couple and no more

Do their beating wings warm them?

Are they watching me, watching them?

I watch cars

Coming and going

Where are they going?

Where have they been?

What does it feel like

To have a reason

To move?

My hands flat on the table

Or wrapped around my warm cup

Drugstore clock’s battery

Keeping up the ticking

Waiting for what?

I don’t know

But something’s coming

I don’t want music

The sound an intrusion

The silence more companionable

No twittering small-talk

I wish I could feel something

Not early

Not late

Nothing

I concentrate on the blue

Networks of veins

Flowing down my hands

Raised up and meandering

Disappearing into my fingers

Likes rivers into the sea

Worker’s hands

Still vital

Wrinkles thick and flexible

Mostly flexible

Not yet parchment skin

But when the sun’s at a certain angle

I see fragility coming

No place I need to go

No one I want to call

Not lonely

Not bored

Suspended

Waiting for something

Worth waiting for

Sun’s straight up

Shadows at a standstill

Time balanced on its toes

Not east

Not west

Looking down on me

What am I expecting?

I want to read

Can’t concentrate

I want to eat

Too moored to bother

Energy stalled

Waiting for…

Well, I don’t know

Sun’s setting

Darkness scaring off the light

Fingers drumming on my table

Dull thumping filling the kitchen

Coffee’s long cold

Don’t want to remember

Don’t want to plan

I wish whatever’s coming

Would come

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