Impatient

If you talk to anyone who waits at red lights or cares about fashion or owns a gun, they'll know a thing or two
about all of us; all of humanity. We are all flowers, we are all little universes, we are all the underdog future.
And maybe this is completely true, and maybe some girl pierced her ear in the 8th grade bathroom, and maybe you
have sand in your shoes from that visit to the beach last week. What does it matter, is this an absolute?
We are all pieces of God, we are all forgetting about Heaven, we are all waiting politely for death to break in
through the bathroom window. You can ask the stains on the sidewalk, the birds who refuse to build nests, the
faded black hair on the barbershop floor. They will tell you that this all does matter, and if you care about your
children, it's an absolute, too. Sometimes I run through traffic lights, wear half-unbuttoned flannel and scoff
at the glory of firearms, but you can talk to me whenever you grab my shoulder and take a moment to stop sweating.
And I'll tell you that we are all muffled recordings, we are all the firefly in the jar that asks if this is Hell,
we are all the voice that replies with distant compassion: "No... not exactly."