I see a few
passionate words
appear
over my hand
sometimes
but still I am alone

The wind taps on the windows
but there are no knocks
upon the door
No glow or buzz
leaping from the phone
No pop up box to chat
or ding to say it-
“You’ve got mail”

Which explains the stream
of Amazon boxes
and Chinese food cartons
and the perpetual flicker
of the screen
and the monastic silence
and sleeping cats
and wanderings back
deep within
into faded friendships
and murky memories

The loud lonesome time
is anxious waiting
for a sign
or a sound
or a word
or an emoji
perhaps an idea
or a friend

At least
there are twelve
spam emails
and those
sport scores
to keep me
connected
with the fulness
of life

“The gray
thick cloud
stretches from
Anaheim
to Atlanta”
the weatherman says
That Cheshire grin
Clock ticking
on the wall
up behind
electric him

If you
are going to
sit home
long like that
be sure to
check your posture