Below, I see robins playing in the street at dusk,
and dozens of goslings cross the empty park parking lot,
and the river ever flowing.
I close the curtains and turn off the lamps again.
I nest in a bed, big enough for two, one more time.
I wake at seven o'clock to an alarm, for eight weeks,
for nothing, going nowhere, by myself.
I sit and stand and sit again.
I open the fridge and close it.
I whittle the hours into toothpicks
and throw them away.