Waiting For A Wave

“I don’t know what it takes to be chosen;”
an arresting line
from a song on the radio.
I don’t know that I know either —
sitting
in my accustomed chair, weary
of it, tired of the seesaw,
the up and down of this;
I sit and wonder for hours
why I can’t be chosen.

The guitar next to me? Untouched
and stubborn in its refusal to be played well.
The poems I’ve written? Unread
and mostly forgotten unless I struggle.
The life I live? What of it? My hair is uncombed,
my teeth unbrushed, my beard just this side
of looking unkempt. I look a mess.

“I don’t know what it takes to be chosen…”
well, I will never know, I think.

So I will sit here, unselected. I’ll wait for time
to end for me, for others.
I’ll sit long hours in this ratty chair
waiting for the impossible to happen —
waiting for an unknown choice
to make itself known; so.
I will remain here
breathlessly unsteady, not able
to understand what it means
or what, if any, the available choices are;
perhaps there are none
or perhaps there are a million and one;
perhaps I have done so already.
I sit here waiting to be chosen;
waiting for a wave
to lift me up and carry me away.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T