Missing You

At the end of a table
on the far side of the room
inside the student's union,
I sit staring at my disappointments
like some grieving widow; as if . . .
it was somehow wrong to feel the way I do;
Students file by on their way to class,
squeeling and moaning
like cattle on their way to slaughter; and,
all I notice are my own thoughts of discomfort;

Inside my own window, I peer,

looking for an easy clue
to solve my obnoxous behavior, like thinking
I could solve the common cold while always knowing
my pain comes from nothing more
than missing you . . .