Pest
I feel like the fly on your food,
swarming around
in business that is not mine.
You do not turn
to look at me
so I swarm all the more,
scared stiff.
I take what crumbs I can
from conversation
and hope that your looks
will not freeze me to the point of inaction.
Do you wish me
to fly away
to a different table?
For some reason,
I stay
and watch
and buzz.
My very presence
feels wrong
in a group already formed.
I know my place,
the creature
I represent.
The lunch bell sounds,
and all get up.
I know
that I will be the outside,
always
the pest
to you.