Loneliness

 

She stands in her kitchen, turns, sits,

and feels there should be something,

there must be something.

But there is no other voice in that house

only the incessant radio gabble; she has tired

of it long ago; the repetition,

her brain on its spit; fatuous conversations,

contrived controversies, feigned remorse.

Or daytime television with its seeping mildew of cheap

dramas, old westerns and World War II;

a hundred channels, she can flick through a hundred

channels before throwing the useless remote away from her.

How can life have reduced to this nothingness;

she addresses the question to brain inside her head,

and it as voiceless as the house.