the fading

The Fading

I sit here in the corner, facing the door- like
a fat little spider- watching the coming and
going, and wait for someone to open the door,
enter, and tell a tale I can make a meal of,
cause I have not a life of my own. My view
is a dusty back yard with a pale almond tree
I’ve wrung every drop of corniness off; lost
all leaves, not that I care, it has done its duty,
chop it down, it’s full of ants, bees will not
touch it; a tit will rather die, in the claws of
a hawk, then been seen sitting on one of its
skeletal twigs. Invisible ink, between lines,
tell a story of waiting, lust for love and fear
when someone really knocks on that door.