A cat

         me

               myself

                           and I

and a host of others

remember.

We sit arms enfolded in silken

gowns

protected by four solid walls.

Like women cross armed

for ever on the point

of lifting a sweater

we wait.

Is that the Messiah?

Did we hear a knock?

Paralyzed by expectation

we pause.

No next moment comes.

All clocks

have stopped their tocks.

A fly lends his ear

to ours

and we hear no buzzing,

just the sound of waiting.

A man is photographed

as he takes his mouth

from a straw.

A pigeon in the midst of pooping

is eternally constipated.

We are not made for this world.

We are saints of the former kingdom

to come.

We wait.

Me for the Messiah.

The cat for his mouse.