“But late evening, late blossoms, and late autumns are perfectly punctual.”
For ages I’ve awaited my late style.
The bread grew stale. The candles shrank and guttered.
Busboys refilled my glass. After a while
the waiter took the menu, softly muttered,
“Poor sap,” and left a bill for the chianti.
And still I sit, tapping my fingers, wanting
to see it, hear it—wide-eyed, short of breath,
begging forgiveness, drenched and pale as death.
I wonder what excuses it’ll make:
work, weather, traffic? Doesn’t really matter.
Well worth the wait. I listen to the chatter
at other tables—youthful, easy, fake.
I’ll keep my vigil till I turn to stone,
stubbornly silent, artlessly alone.