Again I am waiting
In some other room entirely
With a different man
And different furniture
A different circumstance all together
It is not really about the man at all - the type of man
In whose life I sit
Doing nothing but waiting
In a way, the men are all
The same man
And my waiting is
The same waiting
And so neither
The man
Nor the waiting
Are relevant -
Only the circumstance
And the repetition of it
In my life
Countless times
And ongoing predicament
*
*
*
(waiting for Richard Foreman)
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