Sure the roof sags a little,
bags under the widow’s eyes,
wrinkles at the sills.
Who wouldn’t, with all this waiting?

Days stretch a desert of waiting
hours drag their heels in the forest
living on bread crumbs. Still

you are kept from me.
Chalk it up to poor navigation skills
or some atavistic fear of enchantment.

They got it all wrong
extended the metaphor to
ridiculous proportions:

we suffer, who after all
are merely hungry for
a little company.

© 1995, Kim Hamilton

Kim Hamilton is a Seattle-area advertising copywriter. Her poetry is published in SeattleArts Magazine. You can reach her at: