Waiting is Not Heroic

An hourglass holds powdered marble,

 tightens its waist until grain by grain

 trickels through a constructed pathway

A wave stops midway, maintains a pose

The sun doesn’t yield to night

They wait for a letter still unwritten,

a storm force on its way, the telephone call

that may not ring, and a drip that pounds

—a drumbeat that interrupts sleep

Waiting, a historic thumbprint— 

We wait for our turn to speak

Silence is not a response