Alone Together

None of them ever read fiction

as far as I can remember.

If asked collectively they would no doubt respond

it is a waste of time.

 

It’s unlikely any of them read poetry

voluntarily,

couldn’t name a poet besides Longfellow

to save their lives.

 

The men that have come in and out of my life

leave me wondering what they saw in me.

Pragmatists every one,

I realize now.

Not one of them ever ached at a sunset.

 

Come and see it,

I would plead to each of them,

their unified voice calling back

wearily to me:

It’s just a sunset, Tricia,

There’ll be another tomorrow.

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