To hell with what you think of me.
I’ve started drinking martinis at three.
I wake, I walk, I write, I sleep.
I snooze the alarm. I doze. I read.
Sometimes I listen to Carmen McRae
and pity you an inch. Not often.
Mostly I think about who’ll be next
now you’re gone. I stay out extravagantly late.
I buy myself a new coat, oysters, peonies.
I take long baths with a flute of champagne.
In bars, I sip whiskey straight. I pet
stray cats on stoops. When it’s hot
I laze around in French lingerie. Why not?
You’ve gone; the world hasn’t stopped.