I took her to the latest flick,
now she's laughing with her clique.
They're more into jabbering like teens
than discussing what it means.
She embellishes our shared world,
never using first person plural,
but makes them smile, her bunch of bots,
everyone powered by her giggle-watts.
The laughter wanes when I approach
those smiling faces in the corner.
It's like they've all been coached
to view me as a foreigner.
Hasn't she known me in a slouch,
sprawled across our threadbare couch,
ruining my eyes on an old edition,
reading for the truth in fiction?
When will she realize there's a book
behind the flick, and where to look
to understand, and where to find
the author, and the man?