The Perfect Life

I hung two grassy birdhouses
on the porch and waited.
I was seated in a large auditorium
with sharpened pencil in hand
scannable answer sheet
opened test booklet;
more than three months ago.
I mailed one, two
twenty-something love letters
to the man of my desire;
nothing in my mailbox yet.

As busy as life can be
waiting occupies the most space
carving out larger holes
with days spent waiting for
tomorrow, next week, next month
for something to get better than it is.
Waiting holds hands with patience -
amicably coerced nonetheless -
and thankfully so as it prevents
from agreeing to eat dirt
just to cease the waiting.

We wait for tv shows to return from hiatus.
We wait for free or overpriced shipped
packages to arrive on the doorstep,
neurotically checking tracking data
as if this could expedite its arrival.
We are compelled to push, pull, do
whatever it takes to make it go faster,
happen sooner, arrive quicker.
If we could somehow accelerate
the pace of waiting, or stop it altogether
we would have ourselves the perfect life.