They say good things come for those who wait,
but my patience is wearing thin.
I’m getting to the point where
I want to pry the gears out of all my clocks,
smash the hours glasses,
throw the oven timer in the oven
and watch it melt into the metal rack,
ship the sundials back to antiquity
and channel George Washington
& chop down Big Ben like it was
the last fucking cherry tree on this planet—
like my life depended on it.
I want a boyfriend so badly it hurts.
I physically ache.
I doubt I’ll find love beneath the awnings at the bars.
Where are the scholars and artists and writers collecting?
Do people still discuss poetry and politics
and the end of the world at the cafes?
Where is the bread and circus?
Can’t I just sit on a rock out at sea with my guitar
and lure in the burly sailors with my siren songs?
Why can’t someone walk in when I’m painting and say:
“That’s beautiful. You’re beautiful.
Let’s travel to France and make love under the stars”?
My feet are bleeding from standing on pins and needles,
Come on universe, throw me a fucking bone.
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