Night owl eyes 
Hints of a Chesire smile
Curling like a conquered wave
On the corners of your mouth.
Just the right hint of devil
To temp, as undercurrent,
The frothy white tide.

Waiting [In a Waiting Room]

Hope has been hung on the words of strange men
The cogs of clocked avenues are wound
Twitching tightly in our shadowed hearts
Waiting for the footfalls of gloved shoes
To whisper rehearsed apologies.

Outside the men stamp out cigarettes
Wordless in the sleet-stung lot
Angered by their impotence.