The Waiting Man

The man who waited--
waiting was his ambulance.
It turned into
birds upon some lurid sky
he lost while he sat there
waiting, it turned into
moss.

Waiting was the sound of
corn husks
rustling in between rocks and
autumn dirt,
the crows moving through them
like medics finding
bodies in wreckages.

This afternoon
his waiting takes the form
of purple toes dipped in purple water, the purple
dogs bark a melody
emitted in the empty firehouse.

Whose waiting
has he seen, in Vegas
paying animals to dance or in Venice
pushing angels down stairs,
talking on the telephone with his mother
who has throat cancer and an
overweight boyfriend,

voices reaching him throughout the day,
these are the voices of the waiting minds
circling the bald arches of his head.

Loony blurbs surround him,
find their ways to newspapers, folly
in rags dressed up like
cowboy rip-offs and Dracula
pushovers, comb the floor of the dance hall
for bones in the confetti, hair in the wilted balloons.

Laughter joins him and waits too,
the white head of a goat in a yoke,
chainmail masked hostages
called tourists reach for him and want a cigarette.
He asks for one back
as they flicker away, tadpoles in ruin,
whistlers
of what they think
is godly music.