Bound

If I could sit on this weathered stoop
Until the sun sets, then make up my mind
Piggishly, uncontradictably, what to do,

Even if I remained, no, especially
If I remained physically finite and achy,
I think, I know I would be blissed.

And just when I have thought bliss through,
I am interrupted by my wife and daughter returning,
Waving across the scrub-grass lawn,

Strolling toward me, and I have to admit,
Even though I have always craved
Unbounded solitude, this is better.