THE WAITING by Randall Stephen Hall

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The Waiting.

By Randall Stephen Hall. ©

Audio Link below.

This version varies slightly from the original audio version.


You rarely see a cow

Opening a gate on it’s own.

They generally stand and wait



You rarely see patients

Operating on themselves.


They wait too.


We wait in queues.

We choose, we are conditioned

To wait.

For buses, taxis, planes and meals on wheels.


For babies, birthdays

Christmas holidays.

For friends to arrive.

We wait to live.

We wait to breath.


We learn to wait

With our parents.

They hold our hands

And show us how.


We grow to wait.

Watching the great and the good,

We, the un-washed

Tumble, tongue and chew our cud.

Standing by, in our rude fields.


Gawping, we cogitate.

We wait and wait.

Cow like, we lick, flick

Then shake the flies off our backs.


We yield at ever junction.

It is our function

To never question

Or mention.

As our words wait.

Backed up.

Queuing in sentences.


While the movers and the shakers

Make the earth rattle like a piggy bank.

Go about their business like a tank.

All barrel and tracks, they attack.


But, can there only be so many

To move and to shake?

While the cows, the sheep

And the odd docile goat

Choke the plains of the earth

With their red remotes?


We stand like a field of flowers.

Daisy chained, grounded with one breath.

Waiting for the storm

To trample our roots.


One more step in the procession

To be processed.

To quiver at the slaughter.

To finally move and to shake.


There was a time when

I didn’t think about waiting.


But recently, in a dull hospital room.

All televisioned into submission.

Doped up with the others from my herd.

Waiting suddenly seemed like a chore.


I don’t want to wait anymore.



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