The Sorrow of Waiting Sometimes it is the anticipation of getting new breasts or the wrinkles wiped off you face like tears. Sometimes it is only for fixing things-- a broken kneecap from a wet floor, a cut that cries for stitches. But mostly, it's for broken hearts that, like clocks, have not been wound. A loose screw here, there or an alarm that's lost its spark. And you can't see how long you've waited in the dark. But it's the finger tapping, pacing waiting that I despise, how he diverts his eyes when you say his name, an old token, the hollow egg begging for a compromise. It is a prayer for waiting is always done alone, it's the crossing your fingers that he'll come home. The ache of newness that was lost is expectation turned to frost. When the singing wings that used to fly are waiting for goodbye.
Camille Curry's Questions:
Is there clear, consistent emotion throughout the poem?
It is too rhymy near the end or too choppy at the beginng?