There is a pretty girl
in the other room
Off and on she looks at me
through the doorway,
and she smiles sometimes,
and some times she
doesn’t really smile so much.
There are lights and televisons
that flicker on and off again.
I see them flashing all about her
just beyond that doorway,
but I can’t see the lightswitch
and I’ve yet to really decipher
what I hear on that T.V.
(though sometimes she tells me)
Every few days we speak
about the banalities of life
or the things that are not
quite so unimportant.
Every few days we simply
do not speak at all.
I do not comprehend these,
the transactions that occur within
the confines of our little doorway,
Despite all the time spent speaking
waving shouting into the other room.
Though that never was the point.
But I keep looking through the doorway,
hopeful there will be a pretty girl to grin at.
I have not seen her so much these days,
despite the door being open,
if she has not closed the door,
She has certainly moved to a window.