In My Solitude
At the prospect of being alone
I imagined myself
eating over the sink,
grabbing cold left-overs
or opening a can.
Take care of yourself, they say—
One day at-a-time.
It’s 7pm.
I’m sitting at the kitchen table,
a bowl of hot soup,
spaghetti and meatballs
my daughter has brought.
The newspaper spread out,
dinner jazz on FM,
an infusion of tenor sax.
Mt.Tam holding fast—
still visible in dusky light.
Later, in tomorrow’s early hours
I’ll wake, make lists—
ramp to replace stairs,
research motorized cushions
and lift-chairs.
Fall back to restless sleep.
Dream of him
propelled into air
on a slant ramp
in a run-away wheelchair.