Waiting

Just waiting.
The buses have stopped running to my destination.
Just waiting.
The platform is empty, the train doesn't come.
Just waiting.
It's a big shop, and the shopkeepers are friendly, but the shelves are bare, there's nothing much there to sustain and feed.
Just waiting.
I'm tired and I think I've missed the flight; the taxi man won't take me with all my baggage in any case; he says "one bag only" in his broken english, and drives away, leaving me standing on the kerb.
Just waiting.
It's a simple room, but it's comfortable, in its shabby way, and its hard to climb out, down the ladder, without getting caught in the showers of rain.
Just waiting.
Something slowly growing inside, deep deep down. Slowly growing, unstoppable. Coming from deep inside, and burning as it grows, stopping me in my tracks, making it impossible to carry on in the same way.
Waiting.
Wait.
Just wait.
Nothing more is required.