Alone

As the tramp on the sidewalk that rattles
his cup with entitlement speaking monotone,
It is I who remain alone.

Like the elderly woman in the rocking chair
on the porch of a Southern mansion in a lazy
Alabama town after her family has grown,
It is I who remain alone.

As the silo that stands erect perpendicular
to the long fields cared for, braced
against tornados that howl and moan,
It is I who remain alone.

Like the woman who moves to the city of
long winters to live her embarassed dreams
and to sleep upon cold, raging stone,
It is I who remain alone.

With the wind hard on my chest, facing down a
dark road of doubt, distant to those who
choose to be young and happy, who get drunk
on love and certain futures unknown,
It is I, I who remain alone.