When I told you that I was alone
You did not believe me.
And I kept searching in the mansion
For the reason why you didn’t.
Until I remembered off-hand,
That actually you never do.
And so I sat through the evening breeze
With just a teacup in my hand;
Sifting through the day’s paper,
Trying to read between the read lines.
As I waited for a knock on the door;
But there were only lashings at the window.
And then I would leap for the vibrating phone,
Only to find that it wasn’t my phone vibrating,
But the sound of flapping of wings of a fly.
And I would try to slap the fly dead
But then actually I never could.
And I would pretend that I was not bored,
And proudly call this loneliness solitude,
And try to write a hypothetical novel.
But then a draft of wind would enter the room;
And I would try to save the imaginary pages
From being blown away in the wind.
But a few of the sheets would march onto the streets.
And frantically after them I would run-
Without even a clue as to where they went.
And when finally I would return
Panting and tired back to the mansion,
I would find my loneliness sitting on the sofa,
Drinking from my cup of tea,
And sifting through the day’s newspaper.