at one thirty in the afternoon

the doors sigh with age
every time someone,
who isn't you,
walks through them.

they, with
no regard for me, sat
waiting for someone.
and no attention paid
to the ache in the hinges.

the doors and i, bored
and lonely. we sit waiting.
my neck craning to see.

you were meant to be here
at eleven fifteen.

so, what are we still waiting for?