Friday Poetry - late submission (9)

Perpetual Motion

Sitting across from a woman at the coffee shop.
She...twitches.
So clearly not comfortable in her own skin.
I sit VERY still.
I am comfortable in my skin.
I don't twitch. I’m calm.

I sit still and resist the urges.
I defy the internal imperative to adjust my hair.
I don't shift in my seat to look thinner.
I don't look to see who is noticing me.
I don't twist my hands in nervous perpetual motion.
I'm comfortable with me.
I know who I am.

But, I don’t. I'm not.
She only acts what I so often feel.
Squirm.Writhe.Flutter.Tremble.

Fix hair. Straighten glasses.
Scratch ear. Apply makeup.
Stand up. Sit down.
Shoulder roll. Facial tic.
Shift in seat.
Glance over shoulder.
Stretch neck.
Defensive look around room.
Straighten up. Run fingers through hair.
Slump.
et cetera, et cetera, et cetera....

I feel it all, and hide it.
I only act twitchy at night.
Right before sleep
The day's defenses and public persona slide away.
Tics and shudders come out.
I feel it. She embodies it.

The woman-in-motion is writing, also.
Maybe she’s writing about the woman who acts so calm.
The one who sits glued to her chair, refusing to move.
The one who only makes deliberate glances.

Go with God, may peace find you this day.
Both of you.