No Wife, No Kids, No Work

I wake alone
And throw my rested arms
Across the bed.
Not a sound in the house —
The floor is still asleep
Dreaming it is the ceiling.  Opening and closing
My eyes, I float for a long time,
Basking like a turtle
On the sea of late sunlight.
Later, wearing slippers
and a frayed blue robe,
I cook my breakfast.
In the sunlit, empty kitchen,
I feel like dancing
To the great silence.  With a fork
in one hand and a cup
Of fragrant tea in the other,
Restored to a separate
Life, I stand at the stove
And watch as the eggs
Fry wildly in the noisy butter.

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