Alone is a peculiar thing.
Sometimes on mornings like this, when I am sitting
At a lonely table,
Coffee in one hand to banish the cold,
Book in the other to banish the solitude,
I set them both down for a moment and
Ponder, stirring.
My spoon makes loud little clink-clinks,
And frothy pictures in the sweet steaming drink,
And I wonder:
How many separate mornings will I spend this way,
Having spoken to no one but woken at dawn?
Not a soul has heard my voice today, and it
Is nearly noon.
How many mornings of my life will be
Just like this?
A cup of coffee, a book,
And nobody looking about for me?
And am I lonely about it
Or just
Unsettled?