At the risk of repeating myself, I like living alone. As an only daughter I was the one in my family who had a single room. I spent so much time there, both parents tried to nag or shame me to come out, play with friends, help in the yard, exercise.

I got along well enough with my college roommates: in the dorm, in the co-op and then with Lisa, the only chosen one, in our two apartments, but I hit my stride as a senior, living in the little studio on Addison.

I married twice, and I wouldn’t have missed those years for the world. But I was relieved each time when the union ended. Both of my exes picked subsequent wives and appear content; I can’t claim they were the problem …

My condition is so extreme that if I dream I’m engaged it’s a nightmare, and I’m surprised and grateful when I wake up. Here’s a record of what I mean:

I watched an early-morning dream today
about another house: a big abode
of stucco, on a corner, which I’d pay
for with somebody culture calls my co-
dependent, never chosen, seldom seen,
somebody nice enough but not enough,
and as it faded into waking keen
I felt determined to retain my stuff.

I woke alone and starfished in my bed,
alone on cotton sheets, beneath my down,
alone inside my little house, the dread
of trading up a fading feel, my gown
for night instead of wedding. These I seem
to cherish, I’m reminded by a dream.