Wrote this poem a week ago or so... just felt like it on the walk home one night. Mosquitoes in March I padded down the sidewalk at a reasonable speed, Departing rather abruptly; I shouted “good-bye†and He acknowledged my farewell. The Thirty Two Drifted past me ―“Does this go to Deli?†But my friend had gone already, back inside Where it was warm ― although, come to think of it... It is rather mild for March – even the mosquitoes think so. I approached the busy intersection swarms of hurried metal beasts And scholars, businessmen ― none with whom I concerned myself ― Crossed the streets warily, cutting deals up and cars off by the dozen. A couple, and acquaintance of theirs – an Asian man of some descent Passed by two young Ivey boys, books in arm, giving them looks of contempt. I too didn't care for capitalists, which they were of course. The Asian fellow smirked, squinting suspiciously, saying: “Heh, those missionaries - They stand stand out in the cold and hand out folded pamphlets; Well, when I see them, I just tell them I'm a Singleist!†He laughed maniacally at what I guess was an inside joke. He gave the couple a knowing look, affirming my suspicions. “What the hell is a Singleist?†I remember asking myself... Unsure, I promised to ogle it online when I got back. The two laughed giddily; the fat-bottomed girl Gasping for breath – I had no idea what was funny. Some previous Saturdays ago, I had seen the same Sort of men in similar suits, and they had asked me What I thought of God, and “what comes next†As they worded it. I commended the boys for their brazen Bravery – it was not like them to sacrifice themselves to Their chaste duties, handing out sermons to drunks who in turn Vomited at their feet, purging as their stomachs churn. “― and then I told them to smoke a joint with me!†I looked over at the same Asian guy, who was still yammering About the faithful, thinking the devil's crop drove them off. But they had gone, deaf to what this... this idiot was saying. He looked At me and grinned, as if I was supposed to congratulate him. Coldly I stared back at him. My brittle hands would crack off at a clap. Instead, I coughed. Had he that spliff now, I'd not back down. The glowing white man flared with fury - “GO†―“Okay†was all I thought Just get back to where I came from; I will not wait for the bus tonight For it is nothing but a motorized billboard plastered with cruddy lipstick And anonymous faces of people that “could be you.†I declined and walked up past the wellness centre, where I warmed My frigid fingers upon the vapour vent as it steamed. That intrepid trio had crossed ahead of me, still laughing. The boyfriend, who I hadn't paid attention to whatsoever Gripped the girlfriend tightly, their hands locked together. Their friend looked at them, envious of their unity. But he was a “Singleistâ€, or so he claimed, and would Swear it to them, lest he forget that he was better off... Alone. I too, was envious. I spent time with my reflection ― Not that I was vain, or narcissistic – but a rather Pessimistic person. The mirror kept mum, not really Revealing anything obvious. Yet I wondered why then It was only me to see there; I returned my own stare. If my pulse stopped pumping, I would disappear. I had these lyrics in my head, but how do they go? It's driving me mad. I think then of what she wrote And when I read, sobbed sulkily, the pages soaked. For days and days I moped, hoping she was mistaken. Seeing matched pairs pass me by, such as glorious Sailboats glide out, past the pier, over the horizon. Those three had long vanished, and I was lonesome Quickened my pace, hastening past the auditorium. A slightly screechy saxophone serenaded me with With whiny off-key notes, so much so that it Set me off singing what I had sought sooner. Maybe not a song, but the sombre tenor played along. "Who do you love? The lover you can't forget? Who do you love? Or the lover you haven't met?" I mulled over the chorus for sometime, audio ambiance Now solo, practicing a Capella; holding no audience. I stumbled up the steps to the dormitory; “X†is the spot. The lights are on, but nobody's home, and I'm all alone. As per usual, I take a seat and run a single search, omitting Not a thing; nothing comes up for “Singleist†―not a hit. Slipped into bed, heart full of dread, covers over my head. My roommate had strewn strings of seasonal lights Taping them together to the ceiling, shining brightly And had left them plugged in; to the onlooker outside, it seemed That someone was there, expecting a knock any minute. But it was only me, certain it wasn't Christmas yet.