I’ve never been at ease among a crowd.
I like the city but I can’t ignore
the silent screams around me, some as loud
as ominous vignettes in dream, the score
of desperate pantomime, a headache’s hum.
The antsiness of others makes me tense –
I dread their disappointment and succumb
to worry now my hankering’s immense.

My instinct every day’s to stay inside,
to play at cards and read and write a poem.
That’s why I force myself to walk or ride
a bus: to mix and work away from home.
My treatment’s as deliberate as my style,
for I’m an unrepentant claustrophile.