Alone

The best
conversation
he ever had
was
through the glass
with his
celly's wife
because that dude
was solid
and felt bad
for anybody
with
no family
or friends.
His days
went
uninterrupted
by television,
or vocation.
His nights
uncorrupted
by pillow
or wife.
He kept
company instead
with a ballet
of words on
the page,
a symphony
of syntax.

Days he
spent with
masters-
Carver, Ciardi,
Carruth.
Nights,
his own demons,
dark muses
and booze.
These days it
seems
like everybody
knows him,
the parties,
the readings,
the girls.
Snarky banter
with sculptors
and shared
eye rolls
with pompous film makers
and bitches
from CNN.
These days
it all seems
like bullshit.
These days
are for feeling
alone.