Dear Mr. Oboe Man...

Like I’m the only one in the world –
tangled up in sheets – unable to sleep...
fretting over their bills. Whether the paint
they’ve chosen for their bedroom
will clash with the carpet...Trusting
their son will get on alright at Uni...

putting that sound, down to the house
cooling down, and not some serial killer;
at best, a burglar, on the rampage. But,
then again, in an infinite universe,
as was your philosophy, there will be
infinite others just like me; trudging
through their gardens in the rain...

Waxed jacket over their nightgown,
hell bent on watering in the greenhouse;
talking to the plants – the newly
sown tomatoes, the way you did...
that their doctor will call in the morning –
say everything’s OK; that miniscule
lump in their breast is benign...
Wanting the night to end so they
can stop trying, yet all the same,
hoping tomorrrow never comes.

Missing someone, your mirror image;
the chances of which, of course,
are a zillion to one...Listening to
Mozart’s oboe concerto – and you,
fluffing the penultimate note.