What I need is for the bus to come—
on time, or early, or late—
whatever best meets
my punctuality, my procrastination,
my need to make a connection,
to get somewhere else.
Some destination that today feels right,
as if it might stave off
the small insecurities of waiting—
of brooding at the god damn bus stop.
Which seems to me
an apt metaphor of my life:
waiting, and the desire to move.
Frustrated
by my wilting agency
to buy, to
maintain, to insure
my own automobile,
my own decisions,
my own job choices
or lack of choices.
Waiting for situations to improve.
For any action, any thought, any emotion,
that moves in a straight line—
point A to point B—
something like a narrative
I can follow.
Waiting
for the magical moment,
the poetic moment,
the tempestuous lover,
the good man who will be good to me.
For the ideal driver—
who knows where I’m going.
