It is Haibun Monday at d’Verse Poet’s Pub. Imelda is the publican that waits on us this evening and her prompt is…. waiting.
In another place it might be impassive but here its round face is cruel, returning its captives’ furtive glances with a cold unblinking stare. The constant television, flickering noise and light, cannot compete with the steady heartbeat of this clock on the wall. It is this metronomic ticking that gives it authority even over their phones, clutched tight like talismans in each worried pair of fidgeting hands while its steady hands mark time. They wait, uncertain, alone in a waiting room full of people. They each await their prognosis, wishing to turn the clock ahead, wishing to turn it back.
Autumned grass tufts sweep
Circular tracks in the snow
Roots remember spring