hours go by, and then days,
and then a week;
the tulip has already blossomed and died.
the birds have already migrated back home.
summer comes and goes.
we’re up to “Z” in hurricane season.
when will i hear back…
i should probably stop waiting;
but I’ll probably keep waiting until my death,
and then on my next to last breath,
the response arrives: “How are you doing?”