Alone He Talks to Himself A Lot.

No flummeries would you discover
from animated lips that smother
you like mothers would, or another,
for I'd be chafed at that.

That is where those extroverts blunder
while you wonder wherefrom they wander
whether they'd be able to ponder,
absent morning chit-chat

that starts again long after sunsets
to tell you how their day went, and let’s
include those insomniac house pets
they woof or purr back at.

That, of course, is just an impression
from someone who neglected passion
and took for granted satisfaction
as Maggie’s Cheshire cat.


Inspired by “Cabaret Ludwig,” a poem by Rachel Wetzsteon (1967-2009), appearing in POETRY October 2010 edition