at least I've got a home, the wife & child down below, cooking three square meals that always seem to smell similar.
she must use the same spices each time she prepares a dish.
I dine with the walls, I get crumbs in the bed.
I dress.
They're pushing her to have children.
She appears to be accustom to the pressure.
It seems especially heavy around Christmas, and as the youngest in the room, with no thoughts of family in mind,
I can empathize.
Everyone is in a festive sweater. I am in my usual black, my usual dress.
I cast my usual wide gaze and keep my usually closed mouth, closed.
They veer away from baring children and switch to a lighter conversation piece. Avant-Garde galleries through out Chelsea, artists I wouldn't know, places I've never been.
Warm and inviting as these strangers seem, I am odd.
I sip Pumpkin Ale and steal Salmon Maki while they speak of things I couldn't bother to be concerned with, though I should take interest,
I am treated as family.
They know nothing of me, I am content with aloof.
I drink with the walls, heat from these bodies keeping me aware that I am surrounded by personalities in this room,
stories I'll hear, opinions I'll argue,
but unresponsive, comatose with a sappy smile, I'll stay.
Like this, as the evening wears on,
and some snob devours my pretzel,
I wonder, if I'm even clever enough for these walls.
I can hear them snicker.
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