I have never been a patient person

While red sassafras rises

In gracious tradition,

And the lizards hang

Onto the screen door as if

They own it.

More like the rage in me

Buzzes like wasps after

Your picnic in late summertime

When they know the winter

Is coming and they had

Better get to it.

Where does my

Impatience come from?

Feeling late all the time

I would rather be

Forced to sit on this

Front porch now

By a timpani of hail

Upon its tinny-tin roof

So I can holler at

The top of my lungs

Why can’t I get anything done? 

And, hurry up!

I’d rather be stuck

with a long-suffering task at times,

Than choose sitting here,

Listening to cicadaian harps

Make rapturous love to

The night sky

So if I look calm

Perched on this chair smiling,

Don’t stare too closely.

You may discover that my ankles,

Strapped to the legs, are

Beginning to bleed.

Copyright © 2011 Amanda Morris Johnson