White Gloves

I could feel
the movement
pressing in,
like flies
collecting
around the
intoxicating
magnetism
of burning
meat suspended
over a
grill.
Dusty windowpanes
laughing
at my white gloves
soiled by
their imperfection
brought upon
by my own
laziness,
and lack of caring.
People wonder
why I never
utter a word
to them,
even to just say
"Hello"
and "How are you?"
Their movements
press in on me,
and disgust me.
My white gloves
poisoned,
soiled,
destroyed
by their lack
of perfection.
Their utter,
and complete
lack of being
me.