I wait, subject to myself

chewing the end of a pen.
in the pouring rain.
on 57th and 9th.
near Barcelona Bar.

humming and waiting.
she probably won't show.
and that's okay.
I don't feel like talking. 

I am a continued editor of myself, 
waxing both righteous and pugnacious,
trying to be on time, 
but open to risks that make me late for life.

I wait for her,
but I wait for myself
and I think I am waiting
for much more.