Waiting

Waiting is lying embedded
With a newspaper nearby

Reading a neighbour’s eyes.
Waiting is a teacup nearby

With hands in the mound,
A slurp unheard in mouth,

A dregs of continent maps.
Silence is a Godot awaiting

(We are no words but times)
Silence is touching a heart

A hands on a chest ticking
Below a mound, our times.