I
waited for your call,
your offering of glib excuses-
a missed connection,
damp leaves on the line?
But all I hear is
the kettle's whining cry
telling me your time is up, the last train has departed.
Gathering up the useless plates,
the sad bouquets,
the bitter crumbs of what remains,
I realise your face that never was
is neither here nor there-
a flame burnt out
before the match was struck.