Here’s that broody restlessness of a lonely
Day just before astronomical spring. Plenty
Of people about, none you’d want to talk to.
They certainly like talking to each other,
Amiable as the flies at their picnic tables,
Noisier than the muffled cars sliding by.
All the evidence suggests that solitude,
Being marooned without a close-knit tribe,
Is bad for you, brings on dementia, brings on
Heart troubles, bad habits, despair. Oof.
You know the truth, you who distrusts truth
As the subject of a rumor distrusts a rumor.
It’s not the condition but the kind of being
Lonely matters most. During the passing
Intervals when all the human voices go,
No cars cruise down the distant road, only
The massive raven complaining, mundanely,
As it passes a blue-gray pair of fidgety jays,
The solitude is potent, sweet, and dizzying,
Your favorite old-fashioned cocktail of everything
Being everything just getting on with nothing
Much and signifying nothing. Ok, the raven
May be saying something to the jays, but
You haven’t a clue what is. It sounds pleasant
For the same reason that it’s a fine thing to be
In a cafe in a country where no one speaks
A tongue you understand a word of, the same
Reason it’s tranquil and untroubling to hear
A perfect soprano warbling lyrics you can’t
Parse, only enjoy in your ear. You could prove
Marvelously longevous if you could live like this,
If all the messages you perused were those
You chose, if company were an occasional
Diversion, and solitude otherwise perfect. Shush.
There it goes again. Reality, that myth, life
As it exists without us, permission to exist.
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