I'm starting to worry about myself.

Nothing is solicited.

Nothing is offered.

A mild sort of concentration camp

detachment sets in

as one watches their life

go by alone,

at home,

from the couch.

Burnt soup on the stove.

Remembering what real hunger felt like.

Childhood memories.

Waiting for someone to come home.

Feeling them in the room when no one does.

Forgetting to turn out the lights.

Hiding from the neighbors,

but still waving to the mailman.

Fantasizing about ***.

Calls you never answer.

Aches and pains in every position.

Vacuuming.

Returning to my senses asking,

"Who will find the body?"



Sara Fielder © Nov 2023