At night when the house is empty
I sit by the TV and listen for
sounds of distortion.
I raise the volume so
the noise will keep
me company before
the loneliness starts
to swell.
I’ll pass the hallway and
examine the telephone
and think of people to call.
There is a void in my heart
as I pace by family relics
paintings & abstract china galore.
I feel a disconnection to my house
my soul
and this world.
I speak in tongues as the coffee maker
is touched by my thumb—
fields of nightingales disperse in my mind
as an image of you crosses my eye.
Grey eyes, delicately presented facial hair,
and a smile of a boyish innocence
I wish to possess if not in the form of you
but deep within my aged soul.
Come now, it’s seven past one,
and I am dreaming of a resolution
to this damning feeling that corrodes my
soul and disembodies a future
stained within.