Every day,
	I come to eat
	And you are there.
	You shuffle
	Among the tables,
	Among all of us,
	And we see you
	But pretend
	You really aren't there.
	You make us
	Nervous, ill-at-ease,
	For you are not
	One of us.
	We exist
	In our world
	Of books
	And abstract thought,
	While you
	Wander to and fro
	Mopping up
	Our crumbs
	And clumsy spills.
	We speak of
	Tennyson and Thoreau,
	Of muons
	And monetary
	Collapse, of rats
	And mazes
	And abstruse Greek
	Nouns and verbs.
	We babble
	Of our knowledge--
	And pretend
	You aren't there.
	But you make us
	See you,
	As, smiling,
	You pass by.
	Your cheery "Hi!"
	Cuts through
	Our icy walls
	And makes us
	That God
	Might've made us
	Like you,
	Instead of who
	We are.
	We could
	Be mopping tables,
	While you
	Discussed ancient
	Fables with
	Your friends.
	Just a gene
	Nudged another way--
	And all our lives
	Would be swept
	Away, spent
	Wiping endless specks
	From endless tables.


© Fred O'Bryant. All rights reserved.

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