Waiting

The ceiling must contemplate spheres 
orbiting my commotion. 
Colleagues and I improvise 
fluent choreography.
Patrons adjudicate; feed me 
currencies I earn. Their appetite 
for deliverance, I serve.

Yet performance doesn’t appease
past authority. Find something real.
As if what I balance were intangible.
Others say: find someone nice.
But I lack credentials to satisfy. 
Sure, I save for building—but can’t buy
guys I deign to like.

Once, after unmasking, I exited
to moonlight in front; someone behind—
heard footsteps accelerate
in pursuit of my tips. His pacing dropped,
but I never stopped a life
of interminable racing—
when I’m not waiting.

Copyright © by Kevan Copeland