Are We There Yet?
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?