Half the Bed Remains Unused

Still not used to shopping for one.
No more planning, no more menus,
just going when the belly begins to growl.

No more cottage cheese, or kale,
or apricot purée in the refrigerator.
They’ve been evicted.
Replaced with day old chicken 
and containers of meals too old to recognize.
The cabinets filled with Spaghetti Os 
and cereal galore.

It's not as though I cannot cook,
it used to be in my arsenal of charms.

There's no one left to impress. 

I don’t push a shopping cart anymore. 
I didn't think I'd miss that. 
A basket is enough for me, 
I scurry through the aisles, my time spent very quick. 
Unless I linger because of some scent, 
or boredom. 
Or, more likely lost. 
Where did they move the jams and jelly? 
I pace back-and-forth, 
all my efficiency evaporating next to the milk. 

I could enjoy it. 
I should enjoy it, I suppose. 
Linger up and down the rows, 
make small talk with the single women, 
tell a pithy joke near the peaches. 
But it seems fruitless. 

It’s all a chore I hasten to complete. 
And I race to where? 
The empty home and blank pages, 
screaming to be filled but ignored once more. 

I used to run to the coffee shops late in the night, 
to escape the sounds and sometimes fury. 
A habit not yet broken. 
Now, I go to escape the silence that is deafening, 
and search for happenstance or serendipity, 
random acts or a chance meeting. 

Planning luck is a fool's strategy. 

I can blast the music louder now, 
but the choice in songs are melancholy 
and volume mocks their intent.

I go through eggs faster, for some reason, 
so there's that. 
But the big vat of mayonnaise still lingers. 
And no man needs as many cotton balls. 
Finally threw away the random perfumes and soaps, 
and shower caps of hotels visited, 
bleak reminders of less bleak times. 

Half the bed remains unused.