The Only One At The Table

I recall how, once,

my cousin claimed to envy me.

First arrived for lunch,

I'd sat unconventionally-

an empty courted king

entertained with idle fancy.



And a silly thing

at that, as I reclined, content

to, at half-pitch, sing

a song rather irreverent

of the austere glass

table-set gleaming back contempt.



She sees me, and laughs

that I should seem so leisured

then genuinely asks

for the secret to my pleasure-

how did I derive

from myself such mirthful measure?



To her, I realized,

solitude was a bitter drink

always best imbibed

as small shots taken in a blink;

strong, but swiftly swallowed,

with little time to truly think.



And though I followed

she'd implied this to be a grace,

Still, my stomach hollowed

at inadvertent back-hand praise.

Surely, she'd presumed

my private peace to be innate.



But, with truth exhumed,

I remain a lonely creature-

just recently assumed

are my camouflaging features.

I left this all unsaid,

for fear I might displease her.



At one time I'd led

a foolish and futile campaign

to my shyness shed,

and to my peers appear the same.

Soon, this made me jaded

as neither them, nor I was changed.



Still, I felt un-sated;

so from some others I divorced

and contemplated.

A heart cannot be reinforced,

save one- as I'd now known.

Love must be rehearsed- of course,

one practices alone.