It's all right
Unless you're either lonely or under attack.
That strange effortful
Repositioning of yourself. Laundry, shopping,
Hours, the telephone—unless misinformed—
Only ever ringing for you, if it ever does.
The night—yours to decide,
Among drink, or books, or lying there.
On your back, or curled up.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
Is this the tale of a solitary man in a bedsitter?