The group over in the corner is disturbing me.
I think they’re fomenting revolution, perhaps. Or at least–
They’re talking about Hitler, now. I’m not sure how I’m supposed to feel about that.
And now they’re laughing. That’s just typical.
I wouldn’t laugh about such serious topics. At least not where others could hear me and judge.
And is that an accent? Ugh, from Texas, too. She’s talking about feminism.
I thought she was one of those. She has that sort of self-satisfied air. At least I–
I don’t look down on people for their learning, or assume they know less than I just because I disagree.
I’m better than that. (better than her, I mean.) Sitting smug in her boots and just drawling away.
And divorce? Someone said something about it;
Probably positive, those sinful libertines.
“As soon as I have a computer, I’ll give you your criticism.”
Ha! They don’t even like each other. Rather, they don’t, at least
Speak civilly, like decent people do; normal people
Don’t plan their criticism; are not so free with their hatred.
(I wonder when was the last time that man shaved. He’s disgusting.)
And those things really should not be said
In public. Don’t they know that children could hear? How crude.
Those things do happen, but I don’t want to hear about them
Here, where I order my coffee and get my breakfast bagel.
It’s unsettling. Who do they think they are? To air dirty laundry in public, unashamed,
To speak of wounds in everyday voice. At least I don’t–
Don’t speak of my wounds above a whisper;
Don’t laugh at my pain; don’t make a sound;
Don’t let the world see my weaknesses,
Don’t rail at the darkness,
And they laugh. Out loud.
They’re disturbing me.
That group over in the corner.
They’re too alive. Too loud. Too honest.
They call themselves poets; I know what they are,
Mockers and slanderers, liars and filth.
I’m not like them, at least–
“For it is not the well who need a doctor, but the sick.”
Pass by that haven; they’re too happy there.