At the Waverley Inn

Spring in Halifax and the bar
goers have broken hibernation,

 

they’re coatless in small canvas
shoes that test the snowless

 

ground as the sun goes looking
for the other side of the planet,

 

and the corner tavern signs
its name in neon above the street.

 

Perched in my citadel,
the world seems well from here.

 

Whoever says you can’t sit
in a nest of pajamas

 

with an oversized Oscar
Wilde portrait keeping you

 

company, his hair parted
cleanly more than a century

 

ago, his face casually certain,
his shirt slow river blue,

 

they didn’t stay here.
But never mind the centuries:

 

I was standing in the shower
a few minutes ago, wondering

 

if there could possibly be
nothing lonely about solitude,

 

if you could just sit in a room
and be content not to dwell

 

on the absence of others,
and if, once you sit on the edge

 

of the bed, part of you stays
there, brief impression

 

in the spread that remains,
you know, long after

 

it’s time to go. If Oscar
Wilde did stay in this room,

 

the caption should read:
the rest of us stayed here,

 

too, one solitary tribe under
Wilde’s good sleep.

 

So here’s to our drinking
glass, and here’s

 

to our sink. And here’s
to our portrait.

 

And here’s to its keep.