November 21st: a poem: about nothing

I’d like to prop a chair by my window
and sit
stare
watch
note
how the lives of strangers
feel so like
my own
how the charge of cars
and the
screams of birds
feel so
like my own

Billie Holiday plays through the window
and no one can hear her
feel her
be her
Intoxicate my soul
with her eyes
her voice
her yearn
I’ll learn
I’ll be

I’ll light a candle
and burn
everything I own
everything I’ve touched
but me
I’ll survive the
fire
the stare
the cars
the birds
take a Holiday
Intoxicated
in my Solitude.