[NaPoWriMo poem #8.]

The Uncomfortable Act of Waiting

"I want to be something you can control," he said, and I curl
       into his lap
without hesitation, slide my face against a white shirt that's seen

       better days.
My fate rests in the hands of faceless committees, my paperwork
       lying on tables,

the pages quiet and small when I am no such thing.  I twirl
       a balloon string
in my small hands and think of thousands waiting just

       as I am now,
smoking cigarettes fifty feet away from the nearest building,
       reaching for glasses

of Bordeaux, endlessly refreshing web pages, anything to keep
       from losing it.
I am not doing so well in that regard at the moment, I think,

       as tears well
up again.  My hair is petted, smoothed down.  Gentle rocking pulls me
       away from my worry.