Double Solitude

Across the hall my husband
talks on the phone
about a crane, its certification

needed by noon.  I open
my notebook, finally after six days,
stare at the words last written.

His previous conversation
concerned a fire on the Eastern Shore.
Heard him say, neon,


plastic, electricity.  I argue back
and forth with myself about the necessity
of isolation--the possibility of double solitude.

Suppose I had a garden of delphinium, day lilies,
and peonies outside our back door.
Suppose we had a back staircase to the kitchen.

Suppose I didn't know he was writing a report
about a collapsed bin and damaged wheat.
Who or what defines fault, failure?

Earlier I lingered in bed, waiting
for him to return.  Heard him say,
failed brick wall, crumbling mortar.

(c)Elaine Walters McFerron

from Double Solitude, 2004