I’ve been standing here a long while
Just waiting for..
Wires to wrap around my
Wooden neck
Waiting for
The current to pass through
Those rubber ropes
Shocking my patience.
Whispers woosh through
Those withering wires
Whispers of a man to a woman
Who is
Not his wife
Wonderings about mixed signals
And
Demands from a damsel so not in distress
I carry the weight of their signals
Their words
I am
Waterlogged with their words unsaid.
I stand tall
Their finish line
After a block long race
Brothers will wind to push their
Hair from their eyes
And their bodies forward
Half sprinting
Half stumbling on their doe-like legs
Long and gangly
Preparing for the race that will extend beyond
My rendition as their finish line.
I am
Waiting
For
Bright eyed
Bright minded adolescents
With calloused fingertips
From nights long lost strumming guitars
And beating drums
To
Pull chromatic flyers
From worn down messenger bags
To
Smooth them against my oak abdomen
Before chip
Chipping the staples into me
Their hopes
And aspirations
Puncture my skin.
Waiting for a hundred more generations of
Passers-by
Of lingering lovers
Of regular returners.
While these punctures ache
And the electric currents never quiet
I would not trade up my spot on 34th and Hawthorne st.
Without flyers and
The electricity
Without light
Without hopes
I’m just a post.
