Hubs and nests and courses
and old men fishing
in the Mississippi
too close to the urban fray

to be anything but
what they are. I’m the fringe
life centrally located. City hermits
will not unite. But on anonymous

jaunts down avenues
going north/south, we nod
as we pass one another
in steady streams.

Lost in Circulation

Pronunciation stiff
from disuse. Fear cracked
and chipped from the antonym. My tone
reveals a humidity
no rain could cure. Too close
for comfort she’ll say. I won’t say a word

as I inhale her breath
from an open window.
Air-conditioning would seal
the hermit in me for good
(and for bad).

Loners Club

Each time I break
this silence to join
a conversation, I have to start 

at the beginning
again to learn
what I’ve missed since the last 

time I was human.