Classic Poem

He does not come
He cometh not, she said

He does not come —
The strong sweet
Probable hands
The expected feet
The arms have become
Coffee at eight
Lunch at one
And the long wait
From people for tea
To people for dinner
From people for dinner
Till sleep at three —

Her bed jars
To the passing cars.
The air
Fingers her hair.

He does not come —
He cometh not, she said.
She said, My life is dreary —

She yawns and extinguishes the light beside her bed.