Being Alone

Being alone,

being nobody knows

much of, like what

I eat, when, where 

I put things, nap, when, 

my ups and downs

need of woman,

little spells of consumerism,

how I attend the rest of the world,

wars, griefs and solicitations,

wads of begging letters

in the mailbox…

Through irrelevance

significance falls,

like a stone in a well

in a far field

where I used to tie the cow

as a child.