While she sits by the door,
Focussed intently on nothing,
She is asleep in the rafters
Of some imaginary building
To which she has the only key.

From there she has a
Commanding view she
Chooses not to look at;
It is hers, so she knows
Without seeing.

*
The shelf contains a
Colourful array of
Bookends; some are creased,
Faded and worn, while
Others are pristine, save
For barely perceptible
Signs of lost intentions.

Someday, she decides, she
Will have read them all,
Yet there is a nagging
Doubt that says one will
Escape her prying eyes.

It knows which one, but
Refuses to tell her.

*
That curt, dismissive air
So seldom changes that
The recognition of a
Friendly face is akin
To the breaking of a storm.

The knowledge that I
Will never release her
Atmospheric tension stops
Me from asking that
Persistent question, even
Though I doubt it
Would do her harm.

*
For hours I robbed her
Of the occasional glance,
Trying to identify
That elusive familiarity
That now keeps sleep at bay.

Her wide eyes and
Tightly closed lips
Reveal how much she
Will see, and how little
She will say.

05/11/2006

Posted on 05/15/2006
Copyright © 2024 Richard Vince