While the others swerved, Rick remained reserved, as 
these things are, as these things go. He thought it was 
funny how, while the rest were in a row, he sat aside 
and watched the show. He knew it was he who had no need 
for all of their shenanigans. A face so dead, he'd fit 
in with the mannequins. And at twenty-eight, Rick was 
very late at picking up their social cues. He thought 
it was quite a stub after dancing at a club to stand 
aside and feign confused. He thought it was he who, 
though timid, had settled on a fine approach, where 
slipperless, like Cinderella and her coach, he'd stand 
bored lost inside his mind 'til the lights would come 
up and they'd find  at 2am he would still be there, 
just an altar boy without a prayer. On a Monday night 
at the Featherlight, he showed up late to make the 
scene. He thought it was pitiful and the music it was 
dull. The girls who watched guessed Rick was mean, but 
they thought it was he who deserved to be someone they 
were talking to, and one girl asked, 'Boy, why'dja 
hafta look so blue?' He turned her way and spoke up to 
say, 'I hate everybody in this place.' He thought it 
was very clear but his humor, it was queer and with no 
hint 'cross his straight face. He thought that what she 
had just asked him was spoken just to condescend, but 
quite simply, she'd been hopeful that his jowls would 
mend  she'd just hoped that he'd crack a smile, but he 
went off in the corner for awhile. And when we get 
older he'll still be there, pouting smugly in a rocking 
chair. (Beware.) Here's the setting sun of another one. 
As rainstorms come and rainstorms go, he thought of his 
boring town painted boring brown and folks he did not 
care to know. He thought it was quite alright to go out 
tonight amid the shined-up, regular crowd. Yeah, it's 
just his style to be suffering for a smile. If one 
should wear a wrinkled brow, he thought it was he.