At the dive, we sit around the tables
a clear divide of us and them
not spoken in syllables that ears
can hear, but felt through wood.
Words are the only thing
to cross the barrier, many of them
fractured landing badly on
the trampoline of etiquette.
I realize aloud that I am the only person
in the circle without an MFA,
all of them with a coded language
and angulated head nods for recognition.
I sit there drinking to smooth over
how out of place my existence is.
I make a game of counting
how many times the girl across
from me slides her hand
on the boys knee and how many times
her eyes soften when she looks at him
and thinks I don’t see.
Devine another poem
