It Was My Mistake

It Was My Mistake 

It was my mistake to believe I belonged,
my unwitting assumption that the fork before me
ahead in the road
would find the same companions still accompanying me.

They tell me I am in their hearts,
but I would rather have their hands than thrift-store
seconds. What I have learned about this
country club
is that it is more exclusive than I thought.
Thought is the currency and conformity the required dress
when traveling the lush woods and grassy shade. My
thoughts took a turn for the worst
and those I first thought would abides
slid far behind and hid their eyes from me.

I heard they were serving a banquet. I am not sure in
whose honor. All previous attempts to gain information
were blocked by steely clouds and a busy signal.
I never left a message.

But the night of the gala I circled the parking lot,
found the last handicapped spot and turned off my engine.
The pain made me limp, the pain raged like fire, the pain
turned my darkness into lightning and anger. And as I
approached the door to the great dining hall,
I saw every seat was taken and no one
saw me at all.

So I will sleep, restless and barely, anticipating a second
day (the first was decades long) where all who have been
blacklisted, all who have been blocked,
all who have been unlisted, all who have been
swapped for
a work crew who speak the national language
and call it the lingua franca, a gang who works
for wages and settles for nothing more. All
will sit and dine and drink and scatter words like
fireflies between angelic trees.

It was my mistake, I wanted to be wanted, just
like everyone else. Now, usually accompanied only
by my pain,
the days are sometimes sweeter (no prepared remarks),
always more lonesome (no sincere regards),
and always thicker than the light air the chosen inhale.

I’ll say it again; please don’t offer me your heart
if you will not give me your hand.