Half of us neurotic, jet-lagged
we sit in a living room with a vinyl floor.
One paces, glances at his smartwatch
at thirty-second intervals.
The woman on a sofa won’t make eye contact
because this is not her country.
Another hums a lullaby, says she’s dreamed
of being a mother, calls herself Infertile Myrtle,
tells of dead embryos.
One man asks for a cup of coffee.
A young woman says she’s brought a camera
and a good-luck plush unicorn.
One lady wears designer tennis shoes.
One keeps talking about the plan of God
so no one will think she’s not faithful.
We lie about why.
One brags about his legacy, his future.
One talks of making a better world.
Behind that wall there are thirteen orphans
waiting to be fed.