Pretense

Let me be ceremonious in my attempts at
the ritualistic patting of backs,
and nodding of heads
and shaking of hands,
and the regurgitating of compliments that
mean nothing expect that they comfort you,
not me.
Let me dress up and groom and prune and
swoon, if it makes you happy. Let me try
hard to be something I am not – hold my tongue
not to spoil the fun,
of the facade that is social equality.
I could if I tried. Do you want me to?
To ask you where you got your shoes while you
ignore the bruise you can see on my arm.
We will stick to the small and superficial.
We will laugh and drink iced tea
and talk so seriously about the weather,
and the dry patches of grass,
and the ornaments you have on your shelves.
Or better yet the coffee table books, that
you have not read, because, you only bought
them for show
so that any guests know
you must be well read.
I could do that. If it makes you happy.
Because, it is after all, all about you,
and you after all, are content in your ignorant
and silently judgmental bliss. It must all be clean.
The words, and the people who sit on your expensive
L- shaped suede couches. We must match.
You, who winds up your windows when a homeless child
approaches.
You who drives an expensive car and pleads poverty while you sip
on Earl Gray.
You, who gets other people do do things for you.
You regurgitate what you have heard from an equally as
dim friend, who happened to catch four lines of the news.
Which, as we all know makes her the leading expert on
current world affairs.
I can pretend.

But I am not going to.