They Call Me Mr. Socially Awkward

The quilt laid out underneath you

Is wrinkled and dirtied with august sweat,

Stitched with the frozen

Temperatures of September.

Feathered pillows stuffed with an unknown

Bird cushion your head some nights,

others you toss and turn as the feathers

stick you in the neck. Scratches, drawings  

of a faded red pearl necklace across your skin.

You yearn to feel the warmth of the quilt

as a small black fan propels cool air

on your face, eyes closed.

A thin-lined coma

Entraps your mind for hours,

broken by the off-put eagerness

of an alarm clock. You venture

forth to the next class, bag slung over one

shoulder. Sweat sticks to your brow,

skin clammy as you walk, avoiding

eye contact with passersby. Cotton sweatshirt

clings to your back, but you shiver

as the morning breeze finds a path

up that one hole in your right

sleeve. Your thumb wiggles in and out of

the hole, nervously.

Seated among empty desks,

a sense of ease in the lack of CO2.

You don’t have to pretend

to interest yourself in that girl’s life

who rattles on about her high heels.

You’ve got extra space on the desk

tops around you to spread out.

Fooling yourself, no single paper

of yours will touch another table

other than the one you sit at now.

Hot needles to your skin, cheeks

red when they whisper into your ear,

right—but so wrong, a reminder

of the hearing aid you own

that’s not placed in the canal.

You smile and nod

as if you heard about the silver

heels she just bought off eBay,

checking your wrist all the while.

A lack of religion but abundance

of prayers for those patches

that lie on your bed in a quiet room.