I sit alone, at a table,
meant for someone other than me.
Waiting for the flash of inspiration or
a synchronistic event that
will change my plasticine life, molded
by someone other than me.
I’m here, when the sun fights its way to
be seen on it’s lonely track across the sky.
Today it’s cloudy but somewhere, the sun is out,
only to be seen by someone other than me.
I read your email and wonder—Why?
Why would you choose someone other than me?
I read the news, to take my mind off your email,
and read of a man, hanging from “The Black Bridge” and
wonder—why does it have to be someone other than me?