You are my something
You claim nothing
You inhabit no space
In my psyche
That is how universal
You are. You are
The very thread
Everything is made of,
I cannot
Hear you, like old
Lovers, I cannot
Feel your absence
I feel your presence
Always, amplifying
My reality.
I know they think
Less of me because
I am not seen with you
A single woman
A single human
A strange thing
A heavy thing
A pack animal
Alone.
A flat plain
An empty pan
A loose string.
And so alone we go
And it goes on and on
Like Herbie Hancock
Playing to himself,
Cooking music on his stove
Avoiding all the expected notes.
Being Every Day 