dear mr. beckett

I have been waiting here, in this airport, in this state, in this state of mixed emotion, in this layered existence of sexual and independent free-thinking and socially programmed subject, in a moment of entirely stalled and stale air, under the spell of romance and flowered scents, under the impression that something good comes to those who wait, or who work, or who let go of attachment, under the guise of confidence and balance, under a bridge to nowhere and everywhere at once, for something to happen or for everything to stop, for someone to feed me, to sing to me, to call me confidant and trusted soul, for an array of color such that stops sadness and anger indefinitely, for an assertion of something genuine, for a promise of ecology that doesn’t end in chaos and death, for a promise of peace or negotiated treaty among my pet fish who battle for each pellet of food, for a sign of luck or love to accompany the dice, for the dice to roll splendid, for the splendid dice to result in hopes and dreams, for the dreams of splendid dice to open doors and sell cars and make poems and create choirs that inspire lady luck to become man’s skilled feminine side, for whitney to love indefinitely and intimately through a gospel incantation that stops time puts an end to this waiting, for an extended moment of nostalgia in which we remember the real or unreal situation of ethical thinking, for books covered in orange like Zami’s stories of intimate awareness, for intimacy that is more like trust and personal intellectual understanding, for each tree to begin blooming with the knowledge that on a Sunday anything is possible if one is able simply to suspend time, disbelief, and expectation for previously contrived plans, the wait for which may linger on.