Solitude

Solitude’s door is always unlocked.
Even now you can see the light underneath
All the way at the end of the hall.
She knows you will visit her last
After rattling all the handles,
Working your way down.
You always reach her in a foul mood.
She doesn’t mind.
When, finally, you slip inside she is friendly but absorbed.
There are plenty of chairs.
You pull one up beside her
Close but just out of reach
Like another old woman
In the church’s blue darkness
Sitting in the pews
In beating silence
On a Tuesday afternoon.