It's twenty past ten on a Saturday and I am waiting for the doorbell to ring. I have not asked for any visitors but I always expect that she will come. She will knock on the door and I will answer. My face will go pale and my eyes will lean left. She will say, "I am here," and I will reply, "I have always wanted to meet you." It never happens on Saturdays. It never happens over decaf.
I wonder if there is a place in the netherworld where the "almost saints" go. Where they sit chewing on coffee stirrers while the synapses of their brains cuss at them. There must be so many of them that stood at their bedside with knees that wouldn't bend. I bet they know the lonliness that keeps the poet up at night. I bet they have waited for the call.
I wonder if saints are real. Or if the wind just blows when the pressure changes. I have sat beside the leaves of trees with ears too intent to listen. There are languages the mind refuses. I play at being in love but I haven't the mind for it. Logic tries too hard and speaks too quickly. I have not spirit that rustles or listens. I have the saintliness of a nomad who stands still.
I wonder what she will look like. If she will have fine hair like my mother did. If she will be angular. How big her hands will be compared to mine. I can never hear her voice this way. I have never been that patient. Fifteen minutes have passed and no one has called on me.
