Waiters

by Matthew Mcgovern

I’ve passed many iterations of that same man
waiting and watching at the café
seated at that table for two on the terrasse
looking out over the street.

He watches the ants march one by one
waiting to smoke a second cigarette
while still fuming his first.
Next to him is monsieur
eyes cast down
nearly into his drink
dark green liquor, in one long glass
almost glaring
he waits for it to drain itself.

The drum of train on track
it rattles, we’re trained to wait
started waiting when walking
always saving, saving and waiting.

While a doe does the same
saving in case of precipitous flight
nibbling lintels in our line of sight
a bowstring drawn back
prone to shoot
we wait, the string stays taut
and fingers don’t quite fall
from the filament
holding steady, biding time
like the bow we’re bent
bent on waiting, now spent.

Tired, tired of waiting
like the chaps at the café
tired too of what’s to come.