My Impatience with Patience
 
Stare at the door without a handle.
Will it ever open? A question
like a leech sucking on the mind,
feeding on emotion, straining out hope.
It leaves despair to dry upon my palm,
the root of fingers aiming at a target
that waits patiently behind that door.
It is guarded by a largely faceless pack
whose power translates into numbers.
With plenty of time on their hands
they shuffle and reshuffle every moment.
 
Of course it’s just a game to them
as they spend their time wasting mine
in what become defining moments for me.
To jump up and down is a fallen picture.
To shout and scream is a sore throat.
To blush a wet cheek is a wasted tear.
To beg against a slab of wood is a howl.
 
On knees I meet the painful creator
of muscles strengthening to accept what is,
the cruel teacher of a virtuous lesson
about hurt squeezing me into happiness.
I slip between the gap to feel the joy.
Oh boy. Still shut. I have to trust
that this opposition will do its work inside
where arguments are long and lost
and words cut like headstone eulogies.
Stare at the door without a handle.
It will open only when it wants to.

 Susan Wilson

If you have any thoughts about this poem, Susan Wilson  would be pleased to hear them