Cemented here together, stagnant, drained
of creativity’s tide, left to dry
companionship that’s not relaxed but strained.
No nourishment can be received in such
utter isolation, but we don’t try
for anything but entertainment much.
We live apart, each in his sessile shell,
and, till its heat consumes me, I deny
frustration fills my bryozoic cell.
It’s maudlin saying that we’re friends -- true-blue --
so I make jokes instead, and laugh, and lie
or hint but never say, “I love you.”
Indeed, through the sheer power of the word,
I’m drowned in roaring fear and can’t be heard.
 
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