you walk away from the petty conflicts of the civilized

where barbed comments masquerade as polite conversation

where, even though you worked your way from the outside in,

(the way your mother taught you)

you still have one unused fork after the last course

out back, under the stars, you slip off your stiff shoes

and cool your blistered heels in the spring grass

inside, you hear the clink of glassware

murmured voices, the bark of a cough, or maybe a laugh,

oh to stay here, alone

an outsider

outside