Behind him in neon glowed a simple sign, "Tattoo",
Beside that was China Town Express dimly lit,
He was waiting for his bus that cold misty Monday night,
As badly as he wanted to get home he had a greater desire,
He wanted an answer to a question,
"Does she love me?"
Pacing back and forth to ignore he was cold,
And failing to preoccupy his mind on something other than her,
Her intentions and desires he knows not,
A clear sign he sees not,
A sweet whisper he hears not,
And most disheartening...her interest in him he thinks not,
He's patient for that bus, ever-patient,
Yet direly impatient for an answer to his question,
"Does she love me?"
The bus arrives, the answer does not,
How much longer can he wait?