A note from the underground

Hello, solitary one.

I’m a little uncertain
a little diffident
and hesitant
to come a-knocking at your door.

Is it yourself you are content with
for company?
It is, after all, the old reliable.
Do you, perhaps, mistrust the throng,
or will you just not suffer the fools?

The privations of apartness
need happy amelioration at times.
Are you so in the present
because the past is past
and tomorrow knows you not?

You are proud, so proud.
‘Tis not a sin.
A rare bird has few of a feather.

I have heard your voice at night.
It is earnest, intent.
So at odds with the imbecility outside.

Do you like tea?
I would bring the finest from the Orient.
Or, better maybe, wine?
Chablis or Chardonnay in a pop bottle.
A bit of camembert, a crusty loaf.

And, if you dare,
a small canvas and pastels
I will paint you
While you read me your dreams.

I will sense if I impose.
Hold your sting.
I will go quietly,
But not without regret.


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