Came a day when living with others was too much like work.
I withdrew to a seacoast cave.
Gulls sihouetted across the mouth of it mocked me.
We go anywhere, their easy flight proclaimed.
I went nowhere for weeks, stayed holed up, sat cursing.
Holed up in shadow just back from the opening.
Lit a fire back in the dark where smoke and light couldn’t be seen.
Lived on a few fish and the last of my provisions.
Sunrises seen from the cave were red lovely most mornings.
Gray dawns were trouble, meant storms but nothing I couldn’t handle.
Came a day when I was stiff from salt air and knew I had to leave.
Put out the fire and get back out into it.
Before dawn I had scaled the small bluff to the highland.
When full light came up I was several miles along the road.
Came to my house still locked, still safe.
Went in and I was alone, but at least I was comfortable again.
I made breakfast and wondered: was this episode a metaphor for something?
If so it seemed a lot of trouble to go to for one.
If so, know that it took several showers before all the metaphor was out of my hair.
My broken nails took several weeks to grow metaphorically back.
I have to this day a deep and abiding metaphorical distaste for the cries of gulls.
I couldn’t eat a fish again if you metaphorically paid me.
I left, was tried, came back home, and settled into a slant on my old life.
If that is a metaphor, it’s all yours; I still have some laundry to do.