A STREETCAR NAMED GODOT

What does waiting look like then—
when we contort ourselves
into the shape of someone else’s
transit.

There’s a railroad crossing my aorta.
There’s a turnstile in each of my lungs
waiting for the ex—

Hail Mary!
You caught my drift
you shook my bones
you spun my breath
into thunderstorms
that cussed me out by proving
lightning—is never the best night light. 

Still—I kept myself looking like a landmark
waiting
for you to cut strips of memory from my sternum
bend me into bus stop park bench
where I sit still
knowing I should've been a whiskey cask
a cork
a hull—for the high tides approaching 

were we divided by waves,
maladjusted maps,
or changes in cabin pressure
and were we better for it—

either way
the way we met
there was urgency in our hearts
scheduled
for an on-time departure.

7/8/2015
Ekphrastic Challenge: a verse response to this photograph:
http://www.rattle.com/images/EC15June.jpg