Youíre running your hand through your hair, leaning Ė he, bending, examining his shoe, his red hat hides your autumn face from my window spy seat, but yellow leaves under your weathered bench are just the bottom of the frame around you. We are artists, who love you, and would not choose a more balanced composition: you, and he, among the trees through the greater frame of glass. Behind this wall we watch, thrilled and terrified, waiting to see a you we donít know. Hoping but fearing, too, for that nod of the head, that secret look, maybe his hand, for a moment, on your neck just under your ear, all this a confirmation of what your long casual stride and an empty bench unframed tell: that you have a smile we will never see.
10 October 2001