Late. Again.
They say “soon” used
to savor more acuteness,
to dictate “At once!”, “Right
away!” A tiny pledge made
to be chipped, to lose
its edge, a bit, with each
delay. A thousand years
of irritation can be felt,
however faintly, in such
transformation. The waiting
by windows, by roadsides
in the rain, as soon slides
into later, the entire after-
noon. A vow not broken,
but smoothed by mouths
muttering down, fuming
hour after hour: they said
soon, soon.
Peter O’Donovan is a scientist and writer living in Seattle, WA. Originally from the Canadian prairies, he completed his doctorate studying computer science and graphic design from the University of Toronto. He received the Guy Owen Prize from Southern Poetry Review, and his poetry has appeared in New Ohio Review, The Malahat Review, Atlanta Review, The MacGuffin, and elsewhere.