The Introvert

A Poem

I am a terrible host

Serving tea with neither sugar nor honey

nor spoon nor even

a small plate for the teabag.

You see

I grew up unaccustomed to asking people to stay,

it was not until later

I allowed them to fend for themselves.

(Yes, you may see my bedroom. It’s a mess.)

The clock is ticking,

but my voice won’t ask you to leave.

Instead, I invent excuses

a doctor’s appointment that slipped my mind.

Evidently

you do not speak body language.

I am a terrible host,

but if I dig my fingernails into my thighs

I will listen.

I picture ways to leave, though leaving feels impossible

since this room is floating miles above the earth,

and you can’t take a hint.

You are ruining for me

a movie you recently watched.

I nod, imagining instead

that you have asked what color my parachute is,

and I tell you

fire.