She dines in early afternoon—

stirs coffee with a monotonous hand

and stares about the room.

She watches as she sits alone—

a decimal point among the moving figures

knowing she’s unknown.

She looks into the faces with a stare—

hoping one might hold a glance that asks:

who are you sitting there?

She often wonders should she nod and be alluring,

or should look away as if to say

this place is boring.

Should she stare into her magazine awhile

as if his glance were part of the lunch routine,

then just before she leaves, look up and slightly smile.

How many lunches has she searched the room,

looking for a face among the faces

that might answer with a glance the glance her face assumed.

How many lunches had she felt for sure,

today would be the day a man would look at her

and meet her at the door.

How many cups of coffee would it take?

How many mornings must she listen to the ticking of the clock

and look up for the hour of her break?

Each day she hurries to the chatter of the afternoon.

She stirs her coffee with a monotonous hand

and hates the faces in the room.