Yes, I am patient.
I can calmly wait in the line to urinals,
and mumble “God’s gonna cut you down”,
while you’re struggling with your neglected prostatitis.
I can wait,
while the coldness of the restroom
is embracing my quiddity;
putting me in the center of the Universe
or its outskirts.
(depends on a ventilation).
I’m not Johnny Cash,
I’m not wearing black
I wasn’t blessed with calm bass-baritone.
but I can wait,
without knowing people’s faces
behind the toilet doors
or their shivering bodies
making a gestalt image of a macrocosm
(again, depends on a ventilation).
or only an exosomatic memory, —
recorded on the misted mirror.