These days of my life's late sixties,
I've grown used ("inured," you might formally put it)
To eating dinner alone, seven nights a week,
Carrying on lively, engaging conversations with my psyche,
Maintaining interesting, at times humorous, dialogues
Between my spirit and soul, head and heart, me and myself.
It's taken myriad years to arrive at this hospitable impasse,
Perhaps eons prior to my exile from society,
To realize how blessed is the stresslessness of sequestration,
An existence isolated from hypocrisy and pretentiousness,
Elitism, and the compulsive need
To cling to people who thrive on victims of codependence.
Tonight, with an ever so gentle trace of rain
Beading up on the glossy top of this restaurant's patio table,
I raise high my glass of Chianti Classico
And say "Salute,"
Savoring Tuscan Siena's Sangiovese —
Those most delicious cherry-and-plum-flavored grapes —
Then feast on mixed field greens, tomatoes, croutons,
Followed, a half-hour later,
By a garden of steamed fresh asparagus and broccoli,
Realizing that the life of a solitary is not a privation,
Rather a benison of the highest spiritual order,
A religion immune to dogma, gospel, contrivance,
Based on nothing more, but nothing less,
Than discipline, abstinence, and a fervent belief
In the dignity of the self and the soul inextricable, whole.
06/09/09 - (2)