WAR Poem: Of no Consequence, by Anthony Albright

Late again…what’s the consequence?
Why should they get to take up space in my day?
It’s theft of those minutes that I spent waiting.
I am literally wasting my life.
I can’t focus on the coffee.
There’s no joy in lemon and poppyseeds.
It’s just the tick-tock of my internal clock, counting the seconds until I die.
Why don’t they think it’s rude?
Why don’t they obsess?
I hear my pulse in my ears.
How long have I been clinching?
As I release, I hear the squeak of my teeth coming undone from their union.
It’s not them; it’s me again.
There is no movement to miss.
There is no wash of jet fuel, my face to offend.
There’s just coffee, lemon poppyseed, and gentle jazz. The din enters my new open ears again.
Just then, I am jarred from my trance by the focus-tested ding.
It’s a pleasant tone. “There in five. Running behind.”
There is no consequence.
My anxiety is a response
to a condition that no longer exists.
There is no one to tell me that I am a bag of shit.
There is no conference with a man who makes more money than I can imagine.
There’s just an anticipated conference between friends.
There’s no consequence for lateness.
Taking up space is no matter at all.
Nothing matters.
How many of my best friends died,
not knowing that there was a place and a time,
where there is no fine, no minefield, and no consequence for being late or taking up space?

Author: poetryfest

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