Cynthia
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

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