He’d slept most of his life.

There were


wilder ways of living thoroughly.

And he wanted to be wild.

And he wanted to be tiled as on the town;

just occasionally I mean.

Not all the time.

Just a bit.

And he realised now you can’t have everything

you desire; and that everything you sire

doesn’t become everything you’d

like – at least necessarily;

at least in some way untarnishedly.

And yet pleasure he now had:

from the victory he’d achieved quite partially

to the faith he had offered up to the path

his kids had trod, until adulthood stepped

them up a place from

wastrel way, and stuff.

And he saw his job was mostly done;

and although the letting go

would hurt, it had to hurt to be letting go.

And so he decided his life

would be singular.

And so he devised a way of working


And yes, he would sex the occasional mate

of bedroomed landscape,

when late was

the night.

But live together, as if forever,

was no longer his chosen mode of o-



For no longer did he like that idea

of begging and pleading

to share a bed, more than brother and sister

of strange and weary abode.

Soon he would leave.

Soon his home would be another.

Soon he would sleep by himself.