Alone I’ll be to say a wet goodbye
to all the years that start with 1 and 9.
My house will echo as the dog and I
make mumble-face and forelegs intertwine.
Admittedly I’ll long for company,
imagining a corny perfect date.
I’ll tell myself I’m better off to be
alone than to prefer an other mate.

I’ll cheat nobody’s heart. I’ll slam no soul
withholding clarity. I may invent
companionship and have myself a ball.
I understand how little I control,
but I’ve sufficient power to consent
to joyful intercourse, or none at all.