He’d slept most of his life.
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
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.