A waiting time

benjamin weinberg
1 min readSep 18, 2021
After Filomena: Madrid, Spain January 2021- Photo by author

It came without warning,
that’s what they’ll say,
wish I’d a known,
never saw it coming,
never knew it’d be like this.

Oh, I’d laugh, if it wasn’t a crying thing,
Here at the scene,
walls tore down and roof ripped away,
every last belonging scattered,
dreams in tattered heaps,
waiting to be hauled away.
Laughter now, hollow as a sea worn shell,
echoing with all that might have been.

Profit and loss, every penny counted twice.
Not an expense out of line.
So neat and simple in columns and rows.
Who spoke for the trees and the land?
Who spoke spoke for the water and air?
Only the dreamers, the poets, the painters.
The children.

Now, the privileged, will sing a different song.
A chorus from higher ground.
We did all we could.
We did it for you.
Who knew, this force of nature,
overwhelming, unprecedented,
would be our reward.
Just desserts more like.

Like the lady said,
Let them eat cake.

benjamin weinberg

Writer, walker, poet, educator. Commercial fisherman, builder, donut maker, organic grower. Boston, U. City, Maine, South Africa, Madrid.