Not One Wait So Much As Many Small Alarms

You sat with a spade in the sun,
Considering what you had done.
Why you? Consider someone else,
Some other events than the ones
That flutter around your actions.

The soil remains damp, here and there
From yesterday’s rain, but that’s calm
And rich with local petrichor—
Why would you have an anxious twitch
When something moves behind you, why

A small rush of relief hearing
A shower start, meaning you have
More time to relax, up until
The completion of the bath? Why
Are you always bracing yourself?

The simple answer is right there.
You’re supposed be dying, but
The worst of it hasn’t started yet.
So you’re prone to trembly waiting—
Not what’s next. What’s last. You hate it.