Without a friend or love to call my own
Still, I sit high by my window and wait
For someone to come and tell me about
Out there, beyond the gates. I feel instead

Like a wonderfully aged Glenlivet Scotch,
Smooth, distilled and taken down from dusty
Mantel on top of fireplace when friends and family
Arrive, though they seldom ever do.

A slow pour once every decade or so,
About the frequency of my visitors,
I linger, no one ever comes, I age
My glass falls over but doesn’t shatter

Dogs lap up the excess velleity
I become old alone before my time
My life acted out in scenes of bliss, behind
The glass facade of a store bought frame.