I am waiting.
Sitting, the shadows creep in.
Last rays of sunlight drip down
beneath the windowsill.
Busying myself with books and
pens and papers,
coyly reach out my arm in stretch,
Stealing an unadmitted glance –
The hands have rounded twice
Since my sitting
with no bells, no ringing
no call.
Thinking of good things, excuses…
I sell myself on my own lies.
It does not matter. It gives me strength.
I fool myself into thinking
that understanding is attractive.
In my head, someone argues its weakness
to deaf ears.
It has grown dark now. Dust settles.
Animals nuzzle closely in sleep.
I, awake, sit upright
Not honest with myself,
Awaiting visitors long since gone.
cfh
4/10/97