I found myself at another shop, a ritual of mine,
pondering its wares, as if I were actually interested.
The whole song-and-dance was routine by now.
I finally got to the section I was wanting,
and the small bin sat there, waiting for me.
The mass of colors and styles and shapes and sizes
were making my selection difficult;
they all had such different appeals to them,
such different ways others would judge them,
judge me for wearing them.
After finding something to my liking,
I slipped it inside my jacket pocket,
already adorn with many of its brothers and sisters,
coming from several
different locations,
different times,
different people.
I hurriedly left, ignoring the cashier’s bored “see ya next time.”
At the food court, I sat, meeting with my friends.
I sit, observe as they speak.
Much like the bin at the shop,
I look for something in them.
A hobby,
an interest,
an accent even,
just to call my own.
Finally, a joke is made, relating to a teacher,
and I got it.
I smiled to myself,
ready to incorporate
what I had stolen from my friend.