having the house to myself, i can giggle out loud in the bathroom, and nobody knows that it is because i have just caught a glimpse of the reflection of my backside in the weird silver panel that one uses in far away countries (unless you are also in a country whose toilets resemble the toilet i am describing) to flush.
having the house to myself, i can sing my entire repertoire of loud, vaguely good songs, at the top of my voice – imitating ani or tori (or neither of those broads – heck, as if i don’t have a damn good voice…) – stop, start, repeat, redo, pretend i have an audience, and, finishing the last fermata, bow my head, say aloud: thank you.
having the house to myself, i can read aloud – repeat sentences from the letters i received in the morning, or, go back to letters i sent still awaiting replies & read those words out too, listen for what it sounds like to read me when me is off, somewhere, afar.
having the house to myself, i can step into the hallway, speaking – to me. ask myself: what did you intend to do today? answer: ah yes, buy some chai and creamer.
having the house to myself, each sticky note i write, or notebook page open here around my desk is the only cacophony i need encounter – and, as each represents a sentence copied down from a love or a friend, or the particular organization of my own account of the moment, the cacophony is resolved into orchestral arrangements of coplandian proportions – and i can
see the appalachians from my window,
all is well.