by Glen Martin Fitch

I got here early.
Now I pace to sit.
I don't know when I'll leave.
I can't go back.
I'm not in pain
Just bored.
It's hope I lack.
No interest, intrigue.
'Make the best of it.'
It's cold here.
Over there it's hot.
The air is stuffy.
Gross graffiti on the wall.
My goal?
A meal, a nap.
The cleanest stall.
I want a quiet table,
cushioned chair.
Where lingers here injustice
left to right?
What wisdom lurks
within this magazine?
What unmet friend?
What beauty yet unseen?
What day dream still
can get me through the night?
Whose life is happy, healthy,
long, and great?
I'm stuck here
seeking comfort
while I wait.


Glen Martin Fitch's picture

Glen Fitch is a 16th Century poet lost in the 21st Century. Born near Niagara Falls, educated in the Catskills, thirty years on the Monterey Bay he now lives in Palm Springs. Retail not academics has paid the bills. Someday he will finish Spenser's "The Fairie Queene."

Last updated August 23, 2011