Robert Verdon, #223, waiting to wake

tumbling down into low gear and low country

that sea-line in the distance

heads full of what we will do, chips and real fish,

magic encounters leading to new lives, eternal lives,

magical cities driven through as we hug the two-lane

highway round spirituous bends, heading lower, down

the coast as the saying goes, engine roaring with

excitement startling the piebald cows, scattering dust

from the verge occasionally as we play I Spy or is it me

at 24 playing it on my own, living on in the dream world that

has been my lifelong sanctuary and prison, so vivid it seems

more real than the real world with its jobs and associated garbage,

holiday or quest, I do not know, the sun is a red glow through a wine bottle,

lying on rippled white sand and waiting for my father, waiting for

my 20^th birthday, waiting to leave home, waiting waiting waiting

checkmating myself, these days so often I think what is the point where

is there to go I am too old have achieved nothing a hair-spring without a

watch and they don’t use them any more anyway, other times I might be

at the centre of a revolution, all of it is imaginary nonsense I should have

been a plumber at least money to do what I want, not other point to existence in

this godforsaken why why why are we waiting waiting for death waiting for

forgetfulness waiting to wake