I arrange my fingers
on the glossy table top
of a decadent yellow café
as if about to play my first sonnet.
As if I am a child
whose parents have send her
to her first piano lesson.
I tap them
without making a sound.
One tap for the minute which passed.
One tap for the one going by.
Patience was never my tune.
But I am here
so I may as well just wait.
Waiting is like silent meditation.
Waiting is holding still
holding faith
that at the end
of an unknown period
something good awaits.
Patience is subverting
my quick step
in favor of a slow stroll.
Patience is a sedative.
I sedate myself to the tune
of a mute piano playing.