The Waiting

I haven't written a poem in years, but this one kind of came to me in the shower yesterday:

The Waiting is the one place
were nothing and no one
can make me taste anything I don't want to

Where I breath
in the smell of my soul
And run my fingertips along
the crests and dips of
my future self

It is a hairy gray gnome
Just short enough to ignore if I try
though he taps and raps at my knees.

Sometimes I slam on my headphones
with a scream.
But he just climbs up onto a barstool
and does handstands
While he looks me in the eye

The Waiting is a '5os bomb bunker
I built it in case of a
zombie attack

The funny thing is
I was so certain
that of all the frightened people
casting shadows in this world
I was the only one who knew how to find it

But when I switched on the light
I found my friend
Waiting for me
And because of the look of surprise on my face
or perhaps in spite of it

He smiled