And grind on for miles across weirdish wild space,
Headed I fear, towards a most useless place.
The waiting place…
For people just waiting.
Waiting for a train to go
Or a bus to come, or a plane to go.
Or the mail to come, or the rain to go
Or the phone to ring, or the snow to snow
A high-school yearbook. An old photo album. A teddy bear.
A snow-globe. A well-worn book by Dr. Seuss.
Or waiting around for a yes or a no
Or waiting for their hair to grow.
Everyone is just waiting.
Waiting for the fish to bite
Or waiting for wind to fly a kite
Or waiting around for Friday night
Or waiting perhaps for their uncle jake
Or a pot to boil, or a better break
Or a string of pearls, or a pair of pants
Or a wig with curls…
Or another chance.