In their collective activity, human beings are fine.
They produce poems and roads. I just don’t like them individually.
Guarded, indifferent, finally only considering themselves.
When they reach out to me, I sigh. They pick my brain.
They force my hand at times. I’ll recite one of my poems
and feel insane. I am me. They are not.
I understand. They have a life to live,
they need to do things—which bore me thoroughly
but must be done. (I know. I’m just like them.)
When I came over that one time I didn’t know what I was doing.
Who has money for a concert? I would rather listen to music
at home. An intimate fondness with strangers?
My dream is to live life from afar.
I’m not interested in you. How could I be interested in you?
I am exactly what you are.