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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345509" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Waiting Head</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345509" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">If I really am walking with ordinary habit <br>past the same rest home on the same local street <br>and see another waiting head at that upper front window, <br>just as she would always sit, <br>watching for anyone from her wooden seat, <br>then anything can be true. I only know <br>how each night she wrote in her leather books <br>that no one came. Surely I remember the hooks <br>of her fingers curled on mine, though even now <br>will not admit the times I did avoid this street, <br>where she lived on and on like a bleached fig <br>and forgot us anyhow; <br>visiting the pulp of her kiss, bending to repeat <br>each favor, trying to comb out her mossy wig <br>and forcing love to last. Now she is always dead <br>and the leather books are mine. Today I see the head <br>move, like some pitted angel, in that high window. <br>What is the waiting head doing? It looks the same. <br>Will it lean forward as I turn to go? <br>I think I hear it call to me below </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=345509" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">but no one came no one came<br>.</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Anne+Sexton">Anne Sexton</a></strong></div>