February

You can not sit closer 
to the window. In another house

white balloons are blown 
through the room and a hand
is already laying out 
the knifes. Who enters now

will find empty plates, under the
table a child is drawing 
a smile on the sun.

We're arriving somewhere tonight,
to a party or a bed where 
a body is missing. Alongside the canal

a father is cycling with his son 
in the little front seat. In his left hand
he holds the head that thinks he's a pillow.

Inside a girl of twelve years is waiting.
Maybe she's waiting to be taken home

but most of all she's waiting for snow.