John Tottenham

I can go from biting loneliness
to social claustrophobia – and back –
in ten seconds flat.
Terrorized by polite conversation,
I don’t have much energy,
and I don’t have much appetite for other people’s energy.
Groaning inwardly, aching for silence, I can feel
my precious hours receding into slowly measured death;
devoured by people who ignore me. I could bite
the hand that feeds, till it bleeds,
but it isn’t very nourishing,
and it would be spat back.