I sit mornings in my swivel chair,
Wrapped in a blanket
Against the chilly air,
Checking recent Facebook posts
And repetitious e-mails.
It’s year two of the great pandemic;
I’ve been alone at home
(Except for cats)
Fourteen months and counting,
Near-bereft of humankind.
My wife said often in her aging days
I’d do better living by myself
Than she would and more equipped
To be the sole survivor
Of our partnership.
No way then to test if she was right,
But now I am approaching 80,
Talking to the cats and to the walls,
Watching children’s TV shows,
Laying half-read books aside for later.
To right of me are blinds that have been closed
Beyond recall, dusty, disarranged.
And to the left, past a shallow hall,
A shabby kitchen with a window
Where birds perch on a feeder.
Each of these has stories I could tell
And yet I seldom tell them,
Trapped in thinking
There’s no one left to speak to,
No one left to hear.
©2021 John I. Blair, 4/6/2021
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