I am waiting to be a child again
I am waiting to know if it is possible to be
a child when
you’re old
I am waiting to find out just what it is about
children that I want to be again.
I am waiting to know if being old is or isn’t
another
part of being a child.
I am waiting to eat the things I loved as a child
I am waiting for rice pudding and corn on the cob
and porkchops on Sundays
I am waiting to swallow carefully, the way I did
as a
child
to feel the food going down
I am waiting to be told, don’t talk
with your mouth full
I am waiting to write with my mouth full
I am waiting to sign my name to whatever document I
have
to sign
to be a child again
I am waiting to be stricken with the diseases
of old age
I am waiting to know if they are better or worse
than
measles, mumps and broken arms
I am waiting to be the parent to my own childhood
and
I am waiting to be the child to my own parenting
because
I am waiting to explore what lies beneath
the vantage
point of
seven decades done with and
I am waiting to see what the view from the top is
because maybe childhood was the bottom?
I am waiting to find out if childhood was the top
I am waiting to wear no shoes
I am waiting to wipe my nose on my sleeve
I am waiting to scribble drawings on the wall
I am waiting to sing made-up songs
I am waiting to lie in bed and not nap
but
watch the
curtains move
I am waiting for the leaping zebras and tigers to
jump
over my bed
I am waiting to play hopscotch and jump rope again
and do
them well
instead of always losing
I am waiting to see my old friends and
put my right foot
in and turn it
all about.
Turn it all about, turn it all about.
