If the introvert is really so,
Where can the introvert go
To escape public notice—their fear and doom?
They just slip into the bathroom.
Whether in a public place, or at home,
There’s a place where the introvert can truly be alone—
Better than the living room, or even hiding in bed,
Where someone else might lurk, the introvert’s dread—
Is a private room where the introvert really spends their life.
Look around. Where is your moody wife?
You might speak to them as they half-listen, half-hidden by their hair;
You might even make them angry. They aren’t really there.
You might feel fortunate to get them on the phone.
The truth is, the introvert is always alone.
The introverts, silent ghosts, climb inside their walls,
As Churchill’s voice looks for them, echoing in the stalls.