There is something in me
that can’t quit at quittin’ time,
something that runs until it collapses,
that doesn’t believe in vacations-
long spats of couch suicide
and boxes of Queen Ann cherry cordials.
Never at any time do I wish
to go to Disney World.
I don’t know what I’d do.
I eat the same thing for dinner
four nights in a row.
Though my laughter in hidden places
is vibrant and real,
I am the other hand in relation
to a spoon-fed dream
which would tempt me with all the things
I haven’t tasted.
And the war-needle of pity
would have me believe that’s something wrong,
something in me that turns away
all their treats-
they will not understand
or they refuse to accept
that even though I am not full,
I am not hungry.