Waiting

they wait, all huddled close
the king had died again –
life is very long, so kids
pass down your pages
wrapped
in close-cut hair

children arrive
not for long
they know not
what they do

(he came back once, naked and bruised-
She returned a second time.)

The fourth, nobody noticed, except
she left other wakes –
lighter streaks across the streams
where water turns the birds.

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About Benjamin Norris

Published writer of short stories, long stories, poems. Well received art critic and cultural commentator for Berlin magazines. Collaborator with operatic societies. Co-writer of fictional historic psycholinguistic journals. Lecturer of architecture and art history at a Budapest University. View all posts by Benjamin Norris

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