torn diary page

i wasted two-thirds of a Saturday watching
sitcoms. i suppose there were smarter things
to do, a more adult-like list, like laundry,
or budgeting, or putting up my Christmas tree.
but i sat, staring at my computer screen,
watching The Office and laughing by myself
inside an empty, cold apartment. well, not empty, not really,
i'm surrounded by a crowd of books stacked on shelves
and floors, and by the door there is a mob of magazines packed
in a rack. in fact, i also have a multitude of nice CDs, some
DVDs, and of course a gang of vinyl records, which
i spin when i want to appreciate the "old school."

but between me and you and the old lamp post,
i have to admit i'd trade them all, books, albums,
magazines, butterscotch candies, sole ownership of
the remote control, i'd put them all down on the table
and shake hands to seal the deal and exchange the lot for
someone to laugh with when i watch The Office
on my laptop computer, a shoulder to bury my face in
as Michael Scott makes a fool of himself,
a hand to grasp as Jim and Pam dance around
their feelings, and two cool eyes to gaze into when
the credits roll.

really. take the lot. that's my offer. all these petty prizes
i've acquired, because Art and Paul were liars,
see, no man is a rock or island,
unless he's elba, or patmos, or off-hours alcatraz.
and piles of creature comforts and pleasant diversions
are cold tokens of a life built around solitude.
really, take it all away and replace them with
a quiet conversation on the train, and maybe a breathy
"good night" whispered in a cell phone,
with an "i love you like my next heartbeat" as the
silent subtext.