Wednesday, June 13, 2007
Most think they are here to see me.
The gluttons, how little they know.
I have been awake for centuries, patient.
Hooks in my back.
Watching for the admirer among them.
For heels to stop echoing. To find love.
They peer, hand on elbow for twenty seconds.
Lean forward, with a nibble at the temple tips.
A squint, a tilt of the head, and as quickly, walk.
Others glance and jot, consulting the programme
Or wristwatch. At this cog in the afternoon wheel
They nod or shrug, smile or frown,
But seldom stay.
Most are content to not break stride.
Who lingers, to see themself?
Only these latter give me rest.
© Ciprianowords Inc. 2007