The Turning Latch

An early purple
to the sky, and
I’m waiting for someone.

Trying hard,
but there’s nothing to say to anyone
but her, so I’m waiting.

Take another shower,
drink another glass of tea, and still
the waiting.

Rhyme escapes me, reason
seems paltry,
and I’m waiting.

Night’s coming on,
it’s finally cooler,
I may be sleeping soundly tonight
because of that,
but I’m waiting.

This day
goes long
even as it’s ending.

All this waiting, like
the cat at the door pretending to sleep
but keeping one eye almost open;
I laugh at how he gets up
so quickly when the latch turns.
I think he laughs at me too
when that happens.