You know how it is: waiting an afternoon
for the fog to come. Waiting
until dark comes. Or evening comes. He
(I am talking about him) looks,
sees empty buses
stubbornly starting, heading for the city - out for more fog?

Voices of people. A riot? Cheering?
He recognizes them, the voices. The people
he doesn’t know - never knew.

You know how it is: at a disturbingly exact moment
he may tell you (but he doesn’t):
‘Now the phone is going to ring’.
And sure it’s going to ring. The fear
of sensing this. And the fear (still stronger)
of ten, eleven true predictions and then an error.

The fog is coming in.
The radiators are already chilly.
He pulls up his legs. Waits.
It’s getting dark. Or evening.
He shivers and extracts a hair from his wrist.

Cornelis Bastiaan Vaandrager (1935-1992)