I’m looking forward to the next red light
so I can pull the mascara over lashes
hold dilly dally like it’s not mine, with
evidence that I neither chose it, neither could
prevent it. It’s an everyday dawn, a deeper
red light we brush off like cat dander. I aim to
delay arrival, the engine switch when I stop.
All the getting ready is worth far more than
the minute you are. Imagine seasons, watching
the lifeguard chair off the coast, the snow rising,
melting, giving way to the first day warm enough
to swim—the whole time, you wait you
imagine the joy beyond its truth. Your perfect
beach body, your happy family, potato salad
and a new lightweight volleyball set. See it?
I do too, and it’s not even here. But I am, and how lucky
to actually feel that. I’m looking forward to the next twenty
minutes when I can sit unsupervised at a desk
I neither own, nor care to own, when no one asks
me for anything, and I hear what I want myself.