The vain whim of the lost
single man has nothing quite like it,
no everyday sounds that await him
at day’s end – no wife
and two kids on the sky-filled patio
of his house, no sounds of plates
or spoons, no doors that at nightfall
are switched off like twilight
in winter.

On the austere palm of the lonely man
can be seen a diminutive half moon
on the life-line, and a constant
dark patch on the heart-line,
impertinent, tenacious, like a unique destiny.