I am a poet who lives alone.
My mother comes to visit me, sometimes.
I go out during the week, to do the grocery shopping,
and come home, alone, again. I am perpetually alone.
Alone, I feel, with the bitterness, and the tides that spew
forth tornadoes of hate-hatred that is the flesh, hatred
that is the mother. Sometimes, a mother hen will lay eggs;
sometimes, a flock of ducks will fly across a highway.
The train comes by, chugging slowly. Everything is slow
this day. I am alone. You say you are with me, but where
Your spirit does not dwell in my house. I have been as
forgotten as these yesterdays. The cellar door swings open,
revealing dust and bats. I know you do not think I notice,
but I know you are gone. You are not dead. Just, gone.
It is my birthday, and I am alone-alone with my thoughts,
alone in everything, alone by myself on this day.
Perhaps someone will understand.