High fliers

So, I'm all about poetry now. A kind colleague has taken me on (I hope), as Eliza Doolittle (although she's nothing like the professor), to educate me on poetry. There's hopefully some apparent improvement. This was inspired by a scene outside, while I waited for my "turn" in the office loo.

Wait your turn, I tell myself
As I stare through the two-by-two
A child's out there, flying a kite
Oh, there's another too!

Now, I see only the rectangles
Not the thread nor the children's hands
As the sprightly kites come close
In an elaborate mating dance.

The smaller one seems enticed
By the big, blue one and his style
Must have whispered sweet nothings
Could he have, in such a short while?

As the winds bring the couple closer
The unseen hand giving anchor
He takes her away from her support
And elopes, swearing to protect her.

Alas, he has no free will, it seems
She is only a trophy wife at best
When they return to the ground
They are separated, and there’s no protest.

No way to go back to her own
Nor a breeze that can take her away
Ignored and bereft, she's torn
With no real options to weigh.

Wait your turn, I tell myself,
As I stare through the two-by-two;
Today, it’s just the little kite
Tomorrow, it might be you.