I wrote some poetry tonight.
Yet my kitchen is knee deep in dirty dishes.
My painting lies unfinished upstairs
And if I had a bank manager anymore
He’d probably weep when he saw me.
And tonight I’ll sleep alone.
But my world is my own.
And as Diana Krall’s silky tones
Drape themselves across
My simple ills,
I find a warmth of sorts in solitude
Even in the sure knowledge that
I’m not alone.