Waiting

The cramped galley is littered with the dust of closed memories
of smiling quakers, clabber girls, and red-haired cherubs
Dust-powdery, the shelves, lined with faded blue geese silhouettes
stack his sustenance for future glories:
cartons, cans, and canisters
rows and rows
of string bean almandine, Norway bristling, and cream of wheat

A table braces the north wall
sporting a solitary cane-back chair,
its cushion long forgetful of its youth.
Rich brocade tapestry of burgundy and teal
now balding
bleeds kapok and dignity,
wheedling verbal complaints with each fraying human encounter

Sticky with tiny droplets of peach juice,
marinara, fuzzy with Life, dances in congealed rings
on oil cloth once checked red and white
now cracked and crumbling
pale as ancient skin
popping like tired joints coerced beyond enduring usefulness
when caressed by the breakfast dishes

A blood black rose, withered
tentatively clings to a gray and brittle stem
that searches futilely for life nourishing moisture
at the bottom of a Waterford vase
The sun no longer plays upon its leaded facets
now dull and clouded with the dry spatterings of dinner
the dust of neglect and forgetting, lifeless as the rose

At the table he is waiting
waiting in the forever darkness
'By the light of morning,' he murmurs, 'I will hear the Trumpet's Call.
A call to come and serve.'
His fingers forever intertwined in Earthly renunciation
white, confused in twisted yearnings for golden roads and pearly gates
And an end to the Waiting

At the table he is waiting in a patient cocoon of powerlessness
'Dear Lord, I haven't had a drink.
I haven't smoked.
I haven't sinned.
I haven't touched a Woman's breast,
or let her taint my pious heart.
I've spent my life beseeching you and now await
the Rapture of Your Call.'

'I am waiting to hear the Apocalyptic horses' hooves,
the fluttering of giant Angels' wings
to sweep my consecrated soul into the clouds of Heaven keep.
I have lived for nothing but Your promises.'
At the table he is waiting in the stale and musty stench of his decay
He fills with the acrid sulfur
of unkept promises of sacred immortality

At the table he is waiting,
waiting in the Forever Darkness
He strains to hear the horses' hooves with deaf ears
He strains to feel the zephyr of Angel wing with aching bones
He strains to capture the sweetness of Heaven in his nostrils
He strains to see the face of God with empty eyes
He strains to ignite his chest, devoid of Human Love, with Rapture's Fire

The Rose
dark with death
releases the stem
and falls to peace
It flutters on impact to dust
Then rising to Heaven whole, velvet red as new
it sings of Love and sharing
It rejoices in Life's fiery illumination

The Waiting Man extends his bony fingers in the Darkness to touch the miracle
but despairs in finding himself immobilized paralyzed
The Rose sings in rapture once more to teach the Man in Darkness
But is grimacing skull can no longer rotate on its axis to see.
Tears can no longer flow from his vacant eyes
Distant waterdrips of laughter sound echoes he cannot hear
His phantom heart, consigned to unrequited promises, is now touched by cold terror

He is touching Forever