LonelyPoet's profile

I come home to silence
and let myself in.
I hang my coat on the empty hall-tree,
stare at it for a moment,
then turn away.
In the kitchen I prepare a meal,
dinner for one, nothing fancy.
In the cupboard,
four plates, four bowls,
four cups and saucers.
Always four,
the smallest set available.
In the evening I sit without speaking,
the television my only companion,
until I retire to my small bedroom.
An empty hope chest
at the foot of the bed,
and on the night-stand, a telephone,
mocking me with it's silence.

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