Wait a Minute

Wait a minute, and the half moon will slip behind the Willow Oak.
Stand still, and you’ll see the sun light the other side of the sky.

Look around, and you’ll witness a random act of kindness.

Hold your breath, and that pain will go away,
then reappear somewhere else.
One friend may leave, and a new friend arrive.

Give it some thought, and you’ll remember the name of the woman you embraced at a funeral last week.
Her name will light in your mind like a firefly.

Wait a moment, and the name will vanish.

Wait long enough, and that song will come over the two-dollar radio behind the dish drainer, and you’ll feel sea mist prickle across your forearm like it did the first time you heard it.

Or you won’t ever hear it again, and you’ll forget all about it.
Or someone stroking the lit glass of their phone with a manicured nail will say, “What’s a radio?”

Wait a few decades, and the headlines will repeat their worn themes of war, world-saving technology, lost babies, trapped miners, dwindling resources, and rocket ships to the moon.

Just wait.