Waiting

The haggard man on the northeast corner of Hyde Park
is there every day with a cardboard sign, white with red lettering,
declaring that the end is coming.

 Some people say, that guy’s troubled. I try to go about my day
as though he’s wrong—as though the world is infinite.
I do my yoga, balance tenuously on one leg in tree pose,
hands at my heart. I wash the dishes in the sink,
wipe down the stone counter, toss the damp cloth
into the laundry basket. I feed the cat, pay two bills,
call an old friend, write a poem about a crow.

I do all this, but inside I am waiting, preparing,
trying not to be surprised when the man is finally right.
On an ordinary Wednesday I walk up close to him
and say, I believe you. He opens his eyes wide,
spits on the ground at my feet. I say, I’m sorry.
And he says, Me too miss. Me too.