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This is the type of loneliness
that fits neatly on my mantle,
That blends in well with my knickknacks of frustration
and decor of despair.
This is the type of loneliness
that makes for pleasant dinner conversation:
"1990 was terrible, but as you can see, I collected this piece of Ecstasy in 1991..."
"That year was bad for everyone. My worst bits of loneliness, however,
arrived three years later..."

This is the type of loneliness
that makes great works of art.
You can see it in etched into Picasso and Van Gogh,
You can read about it in novel after novel,
You can consume it in poetry
from an Oxford Dictionary of Verse
or from a flamboyant child at Open Mike Poetry Night.

There's another, quieter, type of loneliness,
unfit for poetics.
I don’t feel that sort of loneliness today.

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