Clockstop

Clockstop 

In the waiting room, he finds himself among twelve phoneheads and only two booksters: one’s a Biblist and the other is clearly an ancient Beatnik reading some Ferlinghetti. If he were home, he’d be enjoying his solitude. He’d be inhaling some sandalwood incense and maybe allowing a little Susumu Yokota to lift and float him away to a more perfect world. But he’s not home. He’s in a waiting room, waiting. He knows that when the door opens and they call his name he’ll be moving into another world altogether. He can only hope that it will be a more perfect world. Or: he could just go home and already be there.

The Waiting Room Blues
overhead speakers silent
time at a standstill

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Go Dog Go Café
Haibun Wednesday 
~ WAITING ~
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