November

Pulled into a ball, in the corner,
Lap opened only for the cat, who
Does not stay.
I pull it around me tighter, this
Loneliness, wear it
Like a scarf,
Like armour,
Like a cloaking device.

Look through me, I
Am not here.
All that I was is gone,
And this dustball that is left
Will soon tumble away
With the next inconsequential breeze.