You never see the truly lonely.
Some unfortunate might frequent
the same cafe for three years.
Black coffee. Carrot cake.
Another might occupy the park bench
tight between the oak and dustbin,
glued with a book in hand,
bronze like a statue.
But it’s the people who never come out,
the people you never see,
who never taste the air or brine
or know of local news,
it’s them who are the truly lonely,
begging in the dark
for their quiet, hidden muse
to speak.
