In August the salt-spray of the sea-town
I live in settles

on the sidewalks. And the one eating
with his mouth open,

talking endlessly about shoes
is gazing out

on the harbor. I hate him because
to say he is mad is to say

his troubles are not like mine. I find others
like me, hands in pockets,

walking into the movie theater, their voices
softening, with a faint melody,

as the house lights go off-white-to-yellow,
black—everyone partners

against the bright world outside.
I am not ashamed

of the tears on my face. But, outside,
the stories of others

do not move me. I buy some tea and cookies,
talk to no one.