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It’s not the train I’m waiting for.
It’s not the doctor’s bill.
I watch a clock that doesn’t tick.
I’m sitting far too still.
What is the push or pull I need
to rise me from this chair?
What call will move my heart enough
or stir my lungs for air?
Outside, the banners flap and wave.
A crowd is gathered near.
In unison they lift in song
while I, in silence, disappear.
It’s not that there’s no cause to stir.
It’s not that I am weak.
I’m fishing for what’s mine to do;
the river comes up bleak.
So on the banks I’m lingering,
a witness to the thread
that frays and knots in equal turns.
I lift my hands. I bow my head.
Is it waiting? Is it prayer?
Is silence, too, harmonious?
Is the chair, instead, a pew?
Am I not I, but us?
There is no clock, there is no train,
and yet I’m holding something back.
I wonder if I’ve come to listen
for what’s coming down the track.
© Maya Stein
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