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.