Twiddling thumbs, stiff with a wobbly fidget,
A slight tick in the present thought of the pending arrival,
A silent yawn and flare of the nostrils, day after day,
A tickle, ricocheting like twinkling stars in the black skyline,
Descending from the kneecap and shivering south like freezing raindrops falling single file down a window,
You sit; I am the passerby,
I smile; You bat an eyelash,
Wondering if I will stay constant in my path or stop to smell the floral design; a future sunk into the bud,
A past with a blooming, yet stunted growth,
A yearning to be in a field with your flower, twisting together a ladder for the bumblebee,
Awakened with the sting of tomorrow and drooling in the waiting, for the patient to cough,
I will clutch my breath until I am called into your office.