5:57

12 August 2008

The loneliest part of living
alone
is not the clock, which chimes
unheard
all day,
or the radio, left on,
forgotten,
entertaining the kitchen wall,
or the feeble light of the telephone
blinking
because no one answered,
or even the dripping faucet which,
unnoticed,
bothers no one’s conscience,

but the back door,
which is locked,
and shuffling for my keys,
I have time to consider
that the dishes are still undone,
that I’ll have to go shopping soon,
that dinner conversation will be the comics again,
that my footsteps will fill the whole void
because there is no one here to play the piano.