I’m here early. Observing
in a disinterested
way, or trying to appear

that way. The students, I want
to be one, and the hippies,
the hippies and a dead nylon

smell. Nothing wrong
with green hair but it bothers
me that it’s a fashion statement
while being anti-fashion, and I’m

anti-, anti-social because
I’m fearful of people I
don’t know, because I’m a
chicken without a mind,

perhaps intriguing on the
inside but flat as a board
in these chatty situations,
and all of this makes me

want to hate myself, especially
when George
won’t have the courtesy
to say hi to me. He is

the weirdo who was happy
to see me unofficially
kicked out of the writing
group. I hate him almost

because I set out
my weakness for
him, he being a similar,
bizarre character, and he

dismissed me,
the scoundrel.