So that is where he was, the gentleman,
upstairs with his ear
to the door. For days that is where

he was, with his ear
to the door, upstairs. Nobody came, nobody,
least of all, with a message,

a messenger. For days, confident
the message must come, later,
we might suppose, he shifted his ground

a little. Doubtless
he stood in the middle of his cold
room, with a finger

resting in its print
on the surface of a table. The one
wicker chair never creaked

under his weight. He stood
with his finger in its print, and still
...