written By
So this is what waiting is all about,
pacing before the temple,
pretending comfort on the concrete steps,
admiring the marble tripod,
the entrance flanking sphinx.
I look at my watch
and then the limestone monoliths.
I feel my pulse,
run my hands across the huge bronze door.
After a while, I know my entablature
from my column base.
It’s growing darker by the minute.
My eyes can barely read the inscriptions.
My fingers must aid and abet.
Already, I know more about this building
than the college kid who gives the tours.
Two hours I’ve been here.
Two hours her absence snatched
so brazenly from my life-time.
A cop car rolls by.
Washington’s finest glares at me
across his elbow.
My facade apparently
is something less than architecture.
Sure I look guilty.
But I’m just an underling.
Christine’s the mastermind.
