Waiting Minutes

I wait for the train. I wait for the elevator. I wait for the light to turn green. And each waiting minute floats off into the sky like a birthday balloon gone rogue, never to return. I wish I could grab those minutes with my hands, or pick them carefully off of the sidewalk, and put them securely in my back pocket. I wish I could take those waiting minutes home where I would keep them sealed tightly in a bell jar. Then, preferably on Sunday afternoons after I have bought groceries for the week and put away my clean laundry, I wish that I could open up that jar and let those waiting minutes free. I wish I could look over my shoulder at my alarm clock and see the time go backward, the way that that scoreboards do, when something has happened in the game that's not fair. Waiting minutes aren't fair, and they can't be collected or stored in bell jars. But I really, really wish they could.

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