Soliloquy of a Solipsist

A poem about myself without using the first person pronoun

Things have felt misplaced lately
a stranger walks in a familiar house

troubles are found in the most comfortable places
--- - sitting prisiscley and uncomfotable is recommend

because home hasn't felt like home since mom and dad
though the lover that shares the bed, the couch, the stove, the coat rack, the lamps, the laundry detergent, the financial concerns, the midnight suppers, the back porch, the late dark times and the early dark times(not the french press or shoes)
but the cat died last week and the litter box hasn't been cleaned.
This place has no curtains (dyed during asummer) because they were torn down last winter
too much yellow
and the carpet is gone
given away
so many things piled up in the car so arms can swing freely

two people in my life have epilepsy
they are both gemini
if this means anything to you

seen both of them disappeer for several uncomnfortable minutes

my house is in them
so there is worry.

they say
home is where the whisley is
but whiskey is nothing without the christmas lights and candles
or the converation
or the radio
but still with all this home      -- alludes
and bruises show up on hips and knees
a bull in a china shop

People say, older people say
"at one time it didn't feel there was a place for me in the world, then it happened."
So there's hope.

Bedtime is on the couch because he reads late
going to bed alone is unbearable
during snowy days the night time bedroom window is opened
breathing snowflakes helps winter go by easier(faster)

not once this fall have the apples been picked
and shaved and cut and toppled into my glass bowl with
sugar and cinnamon
nothing like a pie in the oven makes one feel home

the sudden curse (coarsness) of too much change all at once
things are lost
(but there isn't as much dust under the carpet is there my dear?)
the green book got at the library is not in the same place
and my notebook is has simply vanished
and the memory isn't so good for things specific.

There is a Sylvia Plath poem which goes through my head on vol du nuit
Soliliquy of Solipsist
which makes things unreal
and undoes the street before my very eyes
yet quite positivly, though there is no god, truly none,
it must all be as it seems.