In morning outwardly empty but pregnant waiting
the way I look at the life out the window
things overlap and follow one another
placid flow like rivers, watch them pass, I do not care where they go
And the sun and wind and rain and wasted moments and hours that follow
and miles by car and on foot and faces and people and words more or less useless
and head is always somewhere else, while the scales to account
fish (fish do not think they know everything already)
or pretend to read absorbed.
Are you more or less everything I do
six more or less everything I do while I wait
to come to you.
