and ,perhaps we can do absolutely
nothing,but gaze languidly out to
the horizon, whispering detailed
instructions concerning powders
and exact amounts of quinine, watching
as vowels form and drop interminably,
as the hours inch foreward,
the sands lift and eddie on the parched
floorboards, long worn and drill sharp
to the hob nailed boot,
And what we're doing,
What we are really doing,
Is waiting,
With fingers scrambled on parchment skin,
For a sign,a sign,
That they are watching us.
©andreb
©adageio
A