Strangers III

Dear stranger,

How much do you get from my silence?
Do you see me waving from my window?
Because I do.

There isn't enough for a poem sometimes.

Sometimes there's too much work.
Sometimes I don't want to go home.
Sometimes I just lie in bed looking at the ceiling,

Wishing for a good dream.

Can you tell it just by looking over my shoulder
and peering into my frame?
When you can read these silences,

We'll be no longer strangers.