I’m sitting in my rocking chair, 
in my bedroom,
this place not yet home,
where my pet Chihuahua 
died on Sunday, where my son 
lived with me.
I’m alone, this silence 
I once wanted.
A heavy weight.
 
The doorbell rings—I jump.
Two cable men, one still learning.
polite, efficient, already moving
through my rooms.
I offer coffee, water. They decline.
Not here to linger.
I need the Wi-Fi for my printer.
What did we do without TV and Internet?
I need the Wi-Fi for my printer.  
I’m a long way away 
From carbon paper and purple mimeograph ink.
 
And still I am alone
with the memory of a three-pound body
racing the length of the house,
licking my face,
wagging tail, 
a metronome of joy,
barking at nothing,
curling into sleep beside me.