Someone Please Name This No

Sometimes the feeling lingers.
The sneaking suspicion that everyone knows
I’m a poet.

On the street, people walk without slowing.
The crowds surround but never kiss.
Women don’t stop to love me.

On the bus, no one wants the adjacent seat.
Reaching Boston, nothing holds my hand.
I’m too ugly even for Boston.

Above, the sun is awkward and on its way out.
Children pretend everything is all right; fool around.
Pigeons only eat crumbs if I throw them.

I can feel myself flaking.
Every night I wait for a limb to abandon me.
Every morning, the same thoughts huddle in the sheets.

Poetry is leprosy.
Loneliness is waking
and knowing where you are.