IMPATIENCE

Slow oxen hour, witless muddy animal,

I sit astride you

Shoving you with my buttocks,

I shout at you with the sweat in my face or

Beg you beg you to move with my best furious cajoleries

And then again give you a knock with my fist between your ears,

But nothing.

You take your insolent time.

I have to rejoice

You lift those paws of yours at all

And now and then we leave a tree behind.

[Impatience about what? If this poem were moved to its other rightful position, namely in the “Busy Eros” section right after “The Journey”, the answer would be clear.]