I wait, as we do, quite
often. I wait for my husband 
as he bounces around the 
city finding rugs and 
furnishings and bits of 
paper with pictures most
have never seen to make 
a stranger’s walls look
personal. I wait 
for the home where I can
see a tree instead of a 
crane, both making homes 
but one giving breath, as
well. I wait for dreams of 
expressing my self, and I wait 
for solid funding. I wait for
physical love. I wait for 
understanding and for 
things I don’t even know 
I need to ease my inward 
groaning because
there never isn’t groaning,
even if it’s only released 
through the soles of my 
feet. I wait to find out if you
love me. I wait to find out if
I love me. I wait and I 
think and I wonder if ever 
the waiting will end because
at some fantastic and 
mystical point I will finally
rest in knowing the who I 
am in me and you.