One Hundred Years of Solitude

I navigate home from work all day
Move things around the yard
Plants waiting patiently
Pretending for the neighbors

The sun mercifully sets
I lock the door
Television quietly minding its own business
Books and laundry calling to me
Unaware of the dishes

I am grateful that pens rarely run out of ink
Before things get lost
Like phrases I’m enamored with
Perfectly fine words deleted
Afraid of cultural deficiencies

It’s cowardice
To live inside
Draw meaning without love
Have so much to say
As if being a member was preferable

Dreaming is an excuse
Between now and before
Intermittent story hours
Until I don my costume
After one-hundred years of solitude