waiting,

waiting for someone to review my application and make their selection
waiting for someone to say, yes, you can come too
come to the village and ditch all those western, those tedious, those odious ways
come and find your peace in the bustle of the outdoor market,
in the quiet of a bath with a bucket,
in the haunting key of dawn's call to prayer,
in the pain and laughter of faces like your face,
in tongues that tickle with tones and musical cadence
in the distance and loneliness that far-off places afford

and if they say, sorry, you don't make the cut then...
i'll have to make my own.
that's not so bad i say,
(that part of me knows they can't tell me either way)
but lawd, i just wanna be through with the wait.