From this side of this window-
through this glass looking
down seventeen stories –
the world is a odd place.
.
The smell of rain
has become a distant memory.
Taxi cabs – thick bugs.
People- so much seed
scattered on a hard path.
.
Who would have thought
a tiny swish rising
through a stethoscope
could so change everything.
.
Here we are a congregation
Of the suspended –
Inhabitants of a sanitized purgatory –
A communion of those who wait.
.
Here the priests and prophets
wear blue scrubs
and white paper masks.
.
Why, I ask, is it that your tiny heart,
no larger than your tiny hand,
should refuse to grow?
What providence has brought us here?
What karma? There is no answer
.
so we wait.
We wait for our names to be called.
We wait.
– Bill Cook
© 2011, poem, Bill Cook, All rights reserved
Photo courtesy of morgueFile
Re-blogged with the permission of Bill Cook, Poetry Matters. Bill is an Ordained Elder in the United Methodist Church, serving a wonderfully diverse congregation.
- His church: St. Paul UMC, Willingboro NJ.
- BA. English Lit., Rutger’s, the State University, New Brunswick NJ.
- M Div. New Brunswick Theological Seminary New Brunswick NJ.
- D Min. Wesley Theological Seminary, Washington DC.