Saturday, July 01, 2017


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
are you?

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.

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