my man is 41 and addicted to drugs and i saw him waiting out the rain under an awning

the brief house is tonight 
quiet. it’s quiet 
most every night. rain 
falls, Fall rain, in 
marching band intermittence, 
staccato and bass
drum rolls on the firmament 
of roof. it is lonely, yes,
this flickering flash of flesh
housed in temporary hues,
but it’s also 
cozy, to have a roof 
with which to be marched upon.
but this isn’t
March, it’s October.
and this isn’t about sound, 
though of course
perhaps it is. my hands
prod the letters, form them
into words, but the thoughts aren’t 
mine. the fall fruit bursts 
in exclamation of red, out there 
on the outside tree, bound 
by backyard. i bind inside, am 
bound by the river-twist of thought
that channels through my canyons. 
the sound of echo. though this isn’t 
about sound. perhaps 
this hollow round resonance is 
what i mistakenly feel 
as loneliness. my friend, 
the one with such beautiful feet, he
two nights ago encouraged me 
to continue on my conduit’s path. with
his kind jostling, 
telling me to write more
about others. though here i sit 
in this humming silence, speaking not
about sound and not about others. 

there are two cats, silent, in the house 
right now. usually they stay outside. 
the chubbier of the two curls on bed’s top. 
the other, sleek and timid, furtive and 
pale blonde, hides quietly.

does this count 
as writing about others? 
to comment on cats? i don’t
understand how we even have pets,
other animals we keep 
as possession. i don’t 
understand that we are 
on a planet, spinning 
through comets and stars. i am 
writing to speak to loneliness; the rain joins me
in my lament. marching again
on the roof, the shell 
of this house i vaguely inhabit. 
as these thoughts march through my body, 
a shell. the word “march”, wrong
again, both in season and in sound. these 
thoughts are not surefooted, and i do not write 
about sound, and thoughts meander 
like river, and rasp like dry 
fallen leaves, and mutter like a sleeping
body, piled under the heaven of silence.

this was to be 
about loneliness, and i feel 
i have not given enough 
to it. i abandon 
my attempts to steer
these words, and leave 
loneliness off wandering alone. 


Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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