The Dead

I'd pay the wind to turn it off
You make an ice age from a dry dock.
I'll sit here and
Wait
For the steamers to sail.

The quiet earth turns in its sleep
And mountains fall into the sea.
There is nothing else but
Waiting.
Waiting.

As History shook her tired head
I spoke with a man who was already dead
Through yellow clouds of nicotine
He waved dismissive hands at me
He said:
You don't know that you're nothing.
I don't like words that talk of pain
And I'm really only waiting.
But it feels like
Something.