By William Scott
Exactly what you’re waiting for
is what puzzles me most.
No word from god or holy ghost,
than your will, could prompt more.
From the deafening light of childhood
it was for you to bear the grudge;
and among the wreckage to forage
for the knowing that won't be understood.
Your solitary solemn command,
to observe and never speak,
could not plug the information leak
that floods through eyes and hands.
And some times through staggered nod of gin,
come the rotting bits of luminous bliss;
as, over the cold hard plain of drunkenness,
gallops the gelding with impish grin
to tell of the peace of giving in.