Young people,
sit restless and anxious,
wandering nervously,
sweats all over,
armpits, foreheads, shoulders
people late for this, for that,
to there, for them, who or her or him,
tapping desks, thumping feet
staring on their cell phones
burning their behind against the chair’s friction
making money with their hands on their chin
Hot tea turned cold
vacant chairs awaiting
empty stares and swell sighs
at the unwavering Exit sign.
Sometimes feeling the grief of waiting
and hearing dripping anticipation.
Never gives up.
Ten years of waiting
in the same little tea house
serving the same drinks to
different people; for ten year
finding — and on a Sunday evening
a boy asks for my name.