the Bastian sense of waiting

I cannot find the dimension of waiting,
that industrious boredom
that accompanies the snapping of fingers
and arches the outstretched back to the smells of the street
and the harassing flight of the fly.
I would grasp the infinite in the surly clouds
and their swirling gardens.
Perhaps I will listen to the sounds of footsteps
of barefoot Salesians
clamouring for attention
for the mortal remains of migrants
and murderers of short memory.
Perhaps I will dance in the taverns
greasy and full of crumbling rubble
by the verbose neglect of bent old men.
Perhaps I will open debates
on the new found friend's cinema,
tales about the tyranny of time
and the scent of vaginas well-disposed to boors gazes.
Maybe I'll order a pizza