It’s a fake premonition, an assault
that isn’t this. I run like an elk

from a cougar when I see a caress. Marching
down Pine alone and without a sign

I like the people watching. A couple walking
ahead of me glints in my eyes. The man glides

his hand down her back with one smooth
motion, resting, moving up and down, settled,

at the small of her back. My instinct is to run
and dredge them apart my body screams,

she’s in danger. I want to lurch between them,
shove him to the sidewalk. Is she okay?

Does she need help? The scene turns me
nauseous. Down at Seattle Center, everyone

familied or partnered. It’s like a war zone. I flee
for my protection. In the Rite Aid across the street,

standing in line at the pharmacy, his hand cradles
her elbow while whispering in her ear. My stomach hits

my throat. I might vomit. Is my prescription worth it?
He's the architect of my distress. I like to lay the blame

at his feet when he’s not looking, the way he turned
love into a bully. But I don’t care much for any of this,

I’m not concerned. I don’t miss caresses. I don’t
long for someone. This isn’t a pity poem.