The very thought
Of how a scalpel might carve out your face
And whittle you into existence
I cave a little
I give
I waffle
I crumble in the wait
My deepest apologies
For this lack
For this straw spine that would stand in wheat fields
Waiting
Waiting for the work to be done
Aging slowly
Time ticking
Work seeping with dreams
Work ringing me out like a sponge of wishes
Become real.