Alone with my thoughts providing
distractions and entertainments
to keep a rendezvous at bay. Thoughts
creating the shell encircling a vulnerable ego.
We inhabit, perhaps, the same house but, lost in thought,
I never cross paths with my Companion,
(evidenced only by wistful glimpses, residual clues).
Am I truly alone within this odd, familiar structure?
Fear keeps me from exploring the premises.
I take, instead, to the streets
or hole myself up in my fiction-lined attic.
I’m free to entertain, of course –
friends in the parlor, spooners on the porch,
lovers in the rooms upstairs, but, to uncover
whether or not I am truly alone,
I must descend into the dank bowels,
near to the crumbling foundations,
and in that darkling place, kindle a lonely flame
to expose or not, the cornered face
of my Beloved, my Companion.
O child of God! For the malady of loneliness,
solitude is the only possible cure.