Portrait of a Lonely Wolf
#42 of poetry
It pains me to have to say this, but necessity is necessity: the fact that I have written something empathizing with and expanding on the point of view of a particular character does not constitute moral approval of all of that character's (fictional!) actions, nor should be it be taken as condemnation of another character, because why on earth would it?!
For every day, somebody else has left.
For every day, another empty house.
For every day is closer to the day
When he will be the only one still here.
The only one to never find a way
To any other place. His road goes but
In circles. And he has nothing but time
In incremental, identical days.
For every day he wakes. He sates the need
Between his knees. He weeps where none will hear.
He washes, lest some guess that he does not.
For every day he takes himself to work
For pay with no more purpose: it cannot
Buy his way out, buy anybody back.
For every day he then returns alone.
He goes nowhere but home again. Why would
He go anywhere else? There is nowhere,
Nor is there anyone to go with him.
For every day he eats and does not taste.
He used to drink. But alcohol undoes
The numbness he is long reliant on.
And every night he lies awake in bed
And fears, each day a little more, that he
Has heard "I love you" for the final time.
The family he loved are all long gone.
He cannot join them, cannot have them back.
Of course, when he was younger, he'd pretend.
That he was not alone. Then would he tell
Himself some story of eternal love
Not epic or heroic. Quite mundane:
That someone was beside him, that someone
Took care of him from day to day, someone
Could hear the words of casual love that he
Would whisper in spare moments, that his house
Was not empty, that his pillow was one
Who shared his bed, as still his memory
Insists somebody once was glad to do,
When his arms were around them.
But all that
Went sour, went sordid, turned to mocking dread
When forced to face the facts outside his head...
...so he no more permits himself to dream
As once he had, when young. And ignorant.
If there were only someone by his side--
His hand reaches to search the empty space
Beside him on the mattress--who would care
That every day somebody else has left?
That every day another empty house?
That soon would come the day of only two
Inhabitants remaining in the town?
What need has he for anybody else?
'Would have,' he means, or 'would have had,' perhaps.
For he has nothing now, nor ever will.
For every day, here, there is nothing left.
Except for him. And he no longer counts.