Another Friday Night

An arctic wind howls and whistles in this room.
Light in the corner casts no drawn shadow
on any human frame, just dead light.
The television mournful fills the quiet,
Even the fire's warmth skits up the great escape.
Empty chairs gape in a moribund soiree.
Music, muffled at the sound machine,
is caged and abandoned, struggling
to mete out its tunes, nobody home.
Every night is this concentrated oneness.
Plates ache for use in a kitchen suffused
by single pots, one hob ring rots.
My bed awaits, one side slanting,
crinkles low on the left side.
Tomorrow I go out to the day
and pretend that in my happy home
every night is a party.