by Denise Levertov
Some are too much at home in the role of wanderer,
watcher, listener; who, by lamplit doors
that open only to another's knock,
commune with shadows, and are happier
with ghosts than living guests in a warm house.
They drift about the darkening city squares,
coats blown in evening winds and fingers feeling
familiar holes in pockets, thinking: Life
has always been a counterfeit, a dream
where dreaming figures danced behind the glass.
Yet as they work, or absently stand at a window
letting a tap run and the plates lie wet,
while the bright rain softly shines upon slates,
they feel the whole of life is theirs, the music,
"colour, and warmth, and light"; hands held
safe in the hands of love; and trees beside them
dark and gentle, growing as they grow,
a part of the world with fire and house and child.
The undertone of all their solitude
is the unceasing question, "Who am I?
A shadow's image on the rainy pavement,
walking in wonder past the vivid windows
a half-contented guest among my ghosts?
Or one who, imagining light, air, sun,
can now take root in life, inherit love?"
I had a pizza delivered for dinner tonight. I don't recall ordering it with extra soporific, yet that must have been what it had on it. No sooner did I finish eating than I found myself unable to keep my eyes open, and I ended up sleeping for an hour. Of course the extra bottle of beer might have had something to do with it. But it was the pizza that aroused my thirst. Now I have to wonder whether the pizza guys might have sneaked into the house as I slept and tagged me. If they did and they took pictures and the pictures show up on the Internets, I'm going to change pizza places.