Sunday, 4 December 2016

I've had a request, but I'm going to post it anyway...


 

Waiting    (after Ferlinghetti)


It's nearly Christmas and we are waiting

for an end to war.

We are waiting

for Guantanamo to close its doors.

We are waiting

for an honest politician;

we are waiting

for the meek to inherit the earth, and weep.

 

We are waiting

for our money to be given back.

We are waiting

for the recession to be over,

We are waiting for our bonuses,

we are waiting for the lottery win,

we are waiting for an X factor.

We are waiting, very quietly, but with great attention

for the rich man to stick in the needle's eye

and petition for our mercy.

 

We are waiting for our fathers to come home,

we are waiting for our children

to give up their drugs

and for ourselves to grow old.

 

We are waiting for the feral children

in the fast food outlets

to be given a hot dinner and be sent home to sleep.

 

We are waiting for God to remember us

and call round. Some wine would be nice.

We are waiting.

 

And we are waiting

for Mr Right to turn up on our doorstep,

and we are waiting for

the moose-shooting woman

to go back to Alaska,

and we are waiting for the planet to warm up

and we are waiting for the seas to spill over

and we are waiting for another Big Mac

and we are waiting for the dietician

and the optician

and the clinician

and the mortician.

 

Some of us are waiting for clean water,

some of us are waiting for five grams of rice,

and all of us are waiting for a fair deal

and we are waiting for charity that doesn't begin at home

and we are waiting for death.

 

It's nearly Christmas time

and we are waiting for a Christ-like figure

to lead us, we are waiting for him to come again,

 

but he would look dark, like an arab,

like an asylum seeker,

like a gypsy.

We wouldn't treat him well. Why should he come back?

 

We have to do it without him,

we have to do it by ourselves

starting with each one of us and in the meantime,

we are waiting.