The horde ...

There are so many cool people in town.

      Strung out/

                  along/

                   between

Habits and activities,

Bling and fetishes,

Wikipedia pages and talent shows,

Glancing sideways cooly to see if you noticed

how they:

can take a smooth, deep drag;

        describe how it feels to be moved

        by the words of Camus, or DF Wallace;

can name all the shafts and strokes of an engine;

       fire-breathe into thirty yoga binds,

       finger-slide into fifty extended chords.

Scanning the room with pout-lipped detachment

for someone:

to think interestingly by,

    rev confidently with,

    modulate pitches around;

    talk culture at, make art across,

    play games against, run spice-blends by,

(or at least kiss, and not be alone beside).

It might take years of practice,

of copying in quiet,

but we could become part of this

spool that wannabes admire from a distance:

       strung among,

        strung into,

       strung between.

And we'd laugh one day,

mastering it all so we could belong,

only to find—as an expert—we love nothing more than

saying “Welcome” to an excited beginner.

We were always part of the spool.

It's a string that WANTS to be whole:

         every yard,

         every strand,

         wrapping around

books spines and tailpipes,

water bladders and Ginsu knives,

climb harnesses and loom shuttles …

just to feel the press of other strings;

to be united, bight to bitter-end.

And you will laugh, too, beginner—

parrot, poser, player, loner—

the day you realize

you were never

a different string.