Wednesday April 6th, 2016

The exercise:

Write about: the waiting game.

Not an especially productive day. The highlight was probably me getting around to shaving again.

It's feeling hard to commit to doing too much, what with baby due to arrive at any time.

We're ready and waiting, baby. Come out as soon as you're ready.


I got tables five and ten
And I'm gonna treat 'em right,
Cuz I need cash in my hands
Before the end of the night.

Extra tall pours and hors d'oeuvres
For those lucky ladies and gents -
I do what I gotta do
In order to pay my rent.

So I fill up on fake smiles
And laugh at all those stupid jokes,
Cuz a poor waiter like me
Needs to get his from rich folks.


morganna said...

Tick tock, tick tock
The clock ticks away
Seconds, minutes, hours
Each one an eternity
Bringing me closer to the moment
They come to take me away.

Greg said...

@Morganna: I do hope they don't take away your writing instruments when they take you away – I'd hate to be deprived of your poetry! I particularly like the way you've conveyed the essence of waiting without ever using the word.

@Marc: well I'm late to the prompt and I see you're still waiting: I think you should just start doing things and let the baby come when he's ready. I'm sure he'll pick the perfect moment :)
I can't say I like your waiter much, but I appreciate his candour and his determination to succeed.

The waiting game
The nursing home was quiet: the residents had had their dinner and retired to their rooms, and though Abel was still sat in the television room the television was off and he had his eyes closed, watching re-runs of shows that hadn't been aired for fifty years. His occasional laughter reassured the nurses that he was still alive, and they left him sitting there in peace.
Georgette's room was lit only by the nightlight that was plugged into the socket by the door, and she was sitting up in bed. Next to her, in the plastic chair that the home decreed fit for visitors was a young man with an easy smile, bright eyes, and a little cut on his chin where he'd been careless shaving. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn't quite think who. She was sure he wasn't a nephew, but he was definitely the right age. Maybe one of her sisters had been more frisky than she'd heard about?
"Chess?" He had a box on his lap and she admired his hands: he could have got work in television advertising with those fingers. She shook her head; she'd stopped playing chess when she realised that she disagreed with monarchies. Perhaps if it came with a guillotine for the middle-game....
"Bridge?" She smiled and shook her head again; bridge was how she'd made a small fortune back when she'd thought she was menopausal and it turned out she was pregnant. They were good memories, and anyway, there were only two of them.
"Game of Life?" She laughed at that one, and he smiled at her in a forgiving way.
"Dampfross? Cards against humanity? Civ.2?" Georgette shook her head at the first two, but the third made her smile again. She nodded.
"Sure," she said. "That game takes forever."
The young man shrugged. "It's not like I'm going anywhere," he said. "You neither."
"Until you win."

Marc said...

Morganna - this is brilliantly done. That last line could have been many different things and the whole poem would still have worked perfectly. I like what you went with though :)

Greg - enjoyed this take on the prompt. Great details, as always, and that's a well executed bit of back and forth at the end there, particularly all the background bits that flesh things out on Georgette's side.

I am, however, left curious as to who exactly her visitor is...

Greg said...

@Marc: I wondered if I was being a bit too subtle. There is a visitor who famously offers a game of chess and leaves without you if you win, but I always figured that chess was picked when there were fewer games to choose from. And I really like the idea of playing computer games against Death :)