I packed myself as full as a transit bus in rush hour
the rounded face of a mamacita, 3 kids in tow
youngest squirming in lap, wedged next to a pale, dark-suited man, scour-
faced, bracing a hot cup in one hand, as 3 'tweens, sporting pony- tailed bows
snackedon strawberry Twizzler sticks and curtained rows, of blue-eyed screens
for the gulping gasped breaths, of the latest "she said" news wet-dreams
Each stop, gapped itself wide, as some stepped aside, while others rode on
as earplugged songs bounced melodies inside heads
mournfully, gratefully dead a moment, before time's ticket stamped end of song
end of line, scuffle off to _____ oh why must I be here when I'd rather be in bed
dreaming of a soft landing instead of this barking bright
needs must, oh elbow thrust, jostle, jingle change, flip a token, slip away now, right?
But I rode on, conductor, driving the lanes, signalling right is left, left is deft
skilled of hand, as faces shifted in coats to slips of tees and shorts,
while the odd-balls drunk on highballs, skimmed the Prairies as they slept
with sun-blown blue jean memories, storm eye-sky reflecting back cohorts
compadres, rebellious crusader seeking the stories in well-thumbed books
such high dreams in the hopes of finding _____ - perchance, or luck? a true hook
To drive such lengths, measuring distance, click, click, turn
of odometer, kilometer after breath, drinking, eating, sleeping as passenger
docking at one stop, fishing with flies, spies and the slave-to-the-fire, burn
of dusky nights, moving on, the backpack closeting dirty-laundry messenger
ignored for thirst, hunger, need, to drench and douse, house and quench
when all that was waiting for the wanting, was a simple laundromat bench
all rights reserved
after: Real Toads: Waiting for ...
write a poem about waiting, but don't tell us what you're waiting for in the poem
When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow park we saw a few daffodils close to the water side, we fancied that the lake had floated the seed ashore and that the little colony had so sprung up – But as we went along there were more and yet more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road. I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the Lake, they looked so gay ever glancing ever changing. This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway – We rested again and again. The Bays were stormy and we heard the waves at different distances and in the middle of the water like the Sea.
Dorothy Wordsworth, The Grasmere Journal Thursday, 15 April 1802Please forgive me oh master of the daffodils, I have held your creation as an eternal beloved. In profuse admiration, as testament to my insanity, I attempted the original poetic form, consisting of four stanzas with six lines each, for a total of 24 lines. The rhyme scheme is simple: ABABCC. This is called a "rhyming couplet." You wandered lonely as a cloud. I wandered lonely as a bus.