I Wait For Words

I wait for words to become
more than they are.  Perhaps
a violin and guitar, or rain drums,
footprints on wet sidewalk,
that piano in the corner bar
taking flight down King Street,
drunk on chords, veering through
Sunday morning’s light traffic,
trying to remember a name,
a moment, trying to express it
in such a precise and succinct
way that the scene lives for
the gathering police, in words
and music, before it can die. 
EMS is for the rescue of the
unusual, that moment of
lucidity when passing out,
that pain which becomes a face,
a hand and a touch, even though
the event is lost forever, to
become the passion of a treasure
hunt — EMS is for the retrieval of
lies that eyes remember.  
 
In our wander of words, we are
forever lost, extemporaneous
on the beach of a coagulating past.