By Amanda Tumminaro

The concrete of aloofness
has not always stuck my feet in safety.
Like the most indecent insect
I need room to maneuver without direction.
The first impressions in an elevator
don’t instruct my manner.
Psychology diehards sit back in sureness,
twirling golden, twinkling pens
and inform me I should shrug off my armor,
but has my neighbor invited me to tea?

The fault lies not in our stars
but in the vulnerability of the patient.
I clogged my ears with wax long ago.
Physicians do not own the title to reason —
I’ve managed to be moved
without flying out of an aircraft.
Society is decidedly wicked; I am not liable.
Let someone else fill their vacancies.
There’s a person, a shape, fitting for every gap.
I’d rather be tinkering with my own inventions.