There are impatient, edgy people in front of me,
behind me, sighing, snorting, fidgeting,
turning to their phones for distraction from their annoyance.
I feel that irritation too. I want to blame someone
for my frustration, but is it really anyone’s fault
that all of us want something, in this place right here,
at precisely the same time?
Is it even realistic to expect instantaneous service
for anything we want at the precise time we want it?
My irritation assumes that I am more important,
more deserving, than all of those in front of me.
I send daggers with my mind: hire more workers;
make them work faster, more efficiently
(though not when it’s my turn); build more lanes
and infrastructure (when I’m stuck in a traffic queue).
What the hell are all of you doing getting in my way?!
Ah, yes, patience is a difficult thing to master.
One cannot simply throw it in chains,
feed it bread and water, and demand its allegiance.
One cannot simply draw its force with a needle,
or pour it onto our corn flakes,
or drink it in a whisky glass.
I can adopt the pose of a patient man
for the benefit of others,
be the poster child of composure.
But inside, unseen to those around me,
is my little demon screaming oppression.
Today, I aim to ease the torment of my demon,
try a Taoist trick, imagine that I am a tree,
bearing the brunt of a storm, bending, swaying,
but never yielding;
and that I am a river, unconcerned with the boulders
in my path, gently moving around them
on my quest to become the ocean;
and that I am a wildflower, basking in the
morning sun, lost in the moment,
knowing the honeybee will eventually arrive,
but unworried about when.
As my demon relaxes, smiles, and drinks his mint tea,
my queue edges forward and it is finally my turn
after the other, just as deserving, people have been served.
