Waiting,
We are waiting.
For death.

Comfortable, draped, drooping.
Dancing invisible.
A static swirl
Of silent questions.

Why will death
Not come?
Why hover
A resentful cloud
Refusing to rain?

How long will it take?

Are we not there yet?

Mr Degas!
Where are you going?
Home. I am going home.
This is your home, Mr Degas.

How dare you?
How dare you
Call this my home.

The lady opposite
Gathers spilt pepper
On a torn-out page.
A meditation,
A zen garden.
She nods off, 
Over and over,
Round and round.
The artisanal grounds
Wait patiently 
For her to wake up.

How long
Is it possible 
To delay the inevitable?

We are sitting,
Sitting here, 
I tell you.
Slouched,
Without memories.

The television tinkles
A wistful melody.
The same one.
Round and round,
Over and over.

Scenes of snow-
laden feather branches.
A lonely boat floats
on still water.
Blossoms dance on spring branches.
Butterflies.
Round and round,
Over and over.

It doesn’t matter.
Anymore.

Are we there yet?