Hermit

Why do I live way out here?
And why do I duck behind
bushes when hikers approach?
It's not that I dislike people.
Contrarily, I like people. I do!
I am, myself, in fact, you see, of course, a person.

But in constantly surrounding oneself with others
that talk talk talk- and even when
they don't talk in the technical sense
they send messages with their bodies.
The position of a chin, perhaps,
means, "I've got you right where I want you,"
and the shoulders jutting forward
while the womanly lips droop
translates roughly into,
"What about my needs, and my wants,
and wouldn't it be nice if you thought
about me for a change?"

But in constantly surrounding oneself with others,
in going to their stores, their loud restaurants,
their parking lots, their housing subdivisions,
one begins to view oneself through their eyes-
all those eyes, obscured by dark glasses-
those multitudinous eyes that cannot see face to face
eyes that blare a collective judgement-
it blasts into you a massive collective judgement
which is not unanimous, which is not concise,
which is not the flame brightening the wood,
which is not the ritual of boiling water,
but a judgement that is fractured, multi-faceted,
unknowable, ever-expanding, soul-withering!

Who can live beneath those eyes?

But to be alone, to be inwardly content,
to live like me, a hermit,
requires a stillness of mind,
a solitary confidence.

Abandoning humanity, did you say?
No! I'm saving it!

And anyway, I have not vowed
the vow of perpetual hermitude.
When the cycle of my solitude reaches its end
I'll enter the village and find a friend.