“Good things come to those who wait.”
So they always say,
To quell the temper.
To balm the disappointment.

But time doesn’t come free.
Inaction produces regret.
And some people…
Aren’t worth the patience.

People push and push,
Prying hands pulling me apart.
Always in a hurry,
What’s the rush?

Steady for a second.
Some people need more time,
To incubate a little strength;
This world demands so much.

Patience requires practice;
Perhaps that’s why we fail.
Slow down, stay the course.
Some rewards are worth the wait.

Lines on a face that mark
The trajectory of time,
Happiness and sorrow and rage
Written into the skin—
As if every guffaw,
Every tear,
Every unexpressed word,
Can be contained no longer.

They manifest on the surface:
A wrinkle between the brows
For frowns and consternation.
Crow’s feet under the eyes
For laughter and joy.
Time overwriting beauty,
The smooth planes of youth,
Expressing itself victor.

So live—
Cry—
Shout—
Laugh—
Care not about those deep marks
That render a reflection unknown.
Ephemeral life gone in a wink—
Only the impressions remain.

The subway leaves much to be desired.
At rush hour I stand by the door—
Sometimes purposefully for an easier escape—
Other times I am simply forced to that undesirable spot.

Imagine a crate of packed fish:
Two faces hovering six inches from mine,
Total strangers pushed together in unnerving intimacy.
In any other circumstance, a complete overstep in boundary—
But not on the MTA!
No sirree, we get close and personal over here!

A jostled elbow, a step on my new boots, all small injuries—
That accumulate into a tortuous ride that sometimes
Inspires plots of revenge.
I fantasize a groping hand
So I may be given the excuse to scream:
“We’ve got a real life pervert right here, folks!”

Alas, no excuse is given, and I stand
Seething inwardly, outwardly calm.
Then a waft of sulfurous fumes drifts through the car.
Eyes narrowed, I ponder which of the people
Surrounding me issued the offending odor.
The woman who appears heavily sleeping?
The nervous man constantly checking his phone?

Or

Was it me.

The constant noise drowns every singular
Idea, thought, feeling—
Bleeding together in a cacophony of
Fractured selves struggling to be heard.

Weep for familiar nostalgia;
Rage at the injustice of society;
Doubt the strength of humanity;
Question the actions of oneself.

No external force can match
The turmoil of the world within.
Channel the static and drive it outward
Until they hear it too.

A strange face speaks a familiar name,
Wicked grin promising trouble, adventure.
We run through the streets like the devil
Chases us.

A strange face speaks familiar words,
Laughing eyes piercing through every lie.
We leave a trail of ice, searching
For the lost hand.

A strange face speaks a name,
Eyes grim and smile unsteady.
We see each other for the first time
And grasp hands, strangers no longer.

I sit alone, an island surrounded by half walls.
Voices stir the air: a raspy murmur, a tenor metronome.
Picture the bustling activity as they talk, as they walk—
As they act.
Space expands as I withdraw—
Inward, collapsing, an imminent supernova.
Does the danger haunt them?
No.
Do they imagine happiness?
Yes.
Complacency clouds even the sharpest mind,
Dulls it, deadens it, until one day—
You can only scramble to collect the sands.
I wait and watch,
Deriving a sickly pleasure from chaos unfolding.
And when the sands stop—
They will devour themselves,
Ouroboros come—
A timeless suspension of decay.