Hatred is equivalent to companionship.

A clenched fist supplies the heart

with enough apathy, enough emotion

to endure a lonely day.

Violence, they say, is therapeutic.

The ill, the lonely, the tired

can heal all malady with a

bloodied knuckle, wilting tears.

Maybe isolation is the true path.

Maybe happiness comes from an empty chair,

a cool pillow, constant television.

Perhaps hermits live constantly in Cockagne.

It's all only relative, anyway.

They say, those starry-eyed songwriters,

that we crave companionship.

But maybe, another will declare, that pang can be sated

with an intoxicating dose of hard nonchalance.