Watching

I have looked from loads of windows,
but like this, only three, and today
is my third waiting in this way.

So I wear his shirt, smell him on my skin 
as I move through our room
to change the music.  This watching for him

is an air thing, something tangible to breathe-in,
something living in comparison to machines
on the road below.  The orange bus screens

his body as he jumps from it moving.
One more minute, the door will open, close,
And I dispense with waiting at windows.

previous poem