I watch for him through the window,
and huddle myself over the table.
Perch my anger on the edge of the chair
and each passing minute is a window into his head.
I try to table my disappointment;
nestle down in my chair and wait.
When do I draw the curtains
and stack my emotions on the table?
When do I leave my chair vacant?
When do I stop playing this game
of windows, tables and chairs?
Poetic Trials 