a poem

Purgatory

If it’s about not knowing
your destination or how long you’ll
stay put, then I’ve been here quite a while.

Surely even Dante would let a sigh
pass his lips before going mute at the
sight of Beatrice, the vision of grace and holiness.

The bus stop where I currently
sit is the perfect example, because
it’s Vancouver and no one really knows

whether the bus is coming or
if they missed it all together. And now
I’m late for church.

My pacing gets me no
further, nor does circular reasoning
pushing me forward on my way through

the thicket of indecision and
anxiety. The bus has still not come.
I fear I will be here quite a while still.