11:00 a.m.

 

miles davis (gently)

on my cheap cd player

my apartment waiting, waiting

for a vacuum broom mop

grown kids waiting for a free lunch

of Japanese noodles and tea

recovering from a Tylenol pm coma

waiting for my latest lover who never calls

tempted to toss the phone

into the trash with last year’s waiting mistakes

frigid air creeps through window air conditioners

and cracks in the floor

where I watch my landlord work on

broken time and futuristic bikes

aging bones snap

waiting, reminding of things I must