Waiting for My Life || Linda Pastan

I waited for my life to start

for years, standing at bus stops

looking into the curved distance

thinking each bus was the wrong bus;

or lost in books where I would travel

without luggage from one page

to another; where the only breeze

was the rustle of pages turning,

and lives rose and set

in the violent colors of suns.

Sometimes my life coughed and coughed:

a stalled car about to catch,

and I would hold someone in my arms,

though it was always someone else I wanted.

Or I would board any bus, jostled

by thighs and elbows that knew

where they were going; collecting scraps

of talk, setting them down like birdsong

in my notebook, where someday I would go

prospecting for my life.

--

I'd like to believe that for a person to have a self-fulfilling life, that they have to experience this kind of feeling. I am still turning the pages of life and allowing the sliding papers with its rough sound and gentle breeze to take me along with them. I don't really care much for permanent trips; I'd rather be blown away the the last wink of a candlelight, or like a fragile leaf on a windy day...

Or I would board any bus, jostled

by thighs and elbows that knew

where they were going; collecting scraps

of talk, setting them down like birdsong

in my notebook, where someday I would go

prospecting for my life.

Pastan is just incredible with words. I am with you...