Waiting For The Greyhound Bus

I'll leave the window open
a ladder propped against the ledge
a trail of poems from the station
through the town and up the hill.
You'll know my door
it has a poem on it about a door.
It is this poem.
I want to wake to find you
climbing through
or standing, knocking.
Want to take your wrist
draw you in. I will undress
and hold you in my bed.
You'll know it's my bed
because there'll be a poem on it.
A poem about waiting.
It will be this poem.