Waiting for You

I had been sitting on the bench
for three hours
when you sat down
on the bench.
The air was tense.
Heavy with things not said,
so instead
we sat and watched a dog
siff the ground around
the bin and then
have a piss up the side.
Easier than to decide
how to say that I tried
to ring you twenty times
but just got your voicemail.
I had been sitting on the bench
next to you
for twenty minutes
before I noticed
that you were wearing my jumper.
The one with the stain
that remains
on the sleeve
refusing to leave
even after a 60 degree wash.
We had been sitting on the bench
for another hour
while all the time I scoured
my brain for the right words.
And then I could no longer wait
to tell you that I hate it
when you are three hours late
to meet me. 

Mary Sharples