Waiting for Mistress

Are you listening? You are?
Good. It’s important
that you do. No,
it’s essential you do because
these words, and the great,
grinning hole that was my life
are the only signs that I exist.
All else is She:
what She has done
and what She will do.

Who am I? Don’t
you know? Once I moved
in your world, sat
beside you on the bus, read
your paper, tracked
your steps. And watched
your reflection in shop windows -
as She was watching me
and is now (perhaps)
watching you.

What did I do then? Why,
the same as you! I existed ....
slept and ate,
worked and shopped, at weekends
drank too much, got fucked
by girls (and sometimes boys),
believing each time – in that barren
bliss of coming – that this one
would be different, this time I would find
that elusive Happiness.

And as I bartered
dreams for lust, sometimes
I thought I had –
yes, I really did – I thought I’d captured
big H until, like a greasy meal,
I felt the love congealing
in my stomach and soon
I needed more, that something else
to fill another day, to pass
another hour.
In short, I occupied space.
The same space as you.

Do you remember?
Can you picture me?
Does this sound familiar?
That existence – it ended
yesterday. Or was it a year ago?
I do know, but what does it matter?
Time is meaningless
now. For there is only now.
And now. And now.

What does She want, you’re asking?
She has made no demands
except the one demand
I can’t deny Her.
Myself.
She called, and I came.
No force. That simple.
She says
that I was waiting. But I wasn’t.
Or at least
no more than you.

Am I happy? What a question!
Ask instead:
is a bird happy in its cage, a kitten
in its mistress’s lap, a dog
when its beloved master beats it?
All that matters is Her pleasure
for She is an alchemist, freeing me
from the tyranny of choices,
and turning my pain
into the most rhapsodic joy.

And is this Love,
you wish to know?
Of a kind. The kind
I want more than life itself.
For what else is there
to want? Only to live in the now:
the eternity of every moment,
each single instance
of Her pleasure.
Is that love? You tell me.

And what do I fear?
Under Her guardianship:
nothing.
Except you.
And you, and you. Each
putting on your face, fixing
your smile for the world. Waiting,
unknowing, to be chosen
today, tomorrow
or never.
Perhaps we’re all waiting. No,
not me. But you,
you’re waiting. Standing there,
huffing and puffing
like customers in a queue.
All waiting your turn.

Don’t worry.
I can hear Her coming.
This time it’s for me. But soon,
when I’m tossed
on the street - a bag
blowing down the road,
empty of all but memories -
then, maybe, just maybe,
it will be your turn.
Good luck.
Enjoy.