Solitudinarian

Poem By Frank Fagan

This is delicious, both meeting
and not meeting, being here and
not being here, wine half sipped
for full savor.

No preparation for this coming
together of self and self, no
effort to impress or entertain,
to induce hysteria, incite to
riot, get to know each other,
shake hands.

There has not been such a selfsame
conjunction here since the old man
went to bed with that bump on his
head and just lay there sleeping
and not sleeping, thinking and
not thinking, breathing and not
breathing, being and not being,

until that bright white morning
when, softly chuckling to himself,
he went off together into a vast
undisclosed satisfaction.

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