“How's the woodworking going?”
James must be thinking of my brother
“It's alright,” I offer
Have you sold anything?
“No, nothing,” I say.
“It’s a hard business to break into.  A lot of people don’t appreciate it.”
He tells me about a jewelry box he made that his daughter didn't want. 

I have little patience for strangers.  
I don't often care to disabuse them.  
They call me the wrong name
I answer their questions 
About things I haven't done. 
I only have so much of myself
to give away.

I’ll ask the therapist on Wednesday, 
“What's wrong with me?  Why is it so hard to connect with others?”
It seems like there should be some kind of answer.
Something must have happened
To make me so alien
So haughty and undeserving of kinship
Strangers tell me happy birthday
And I am angry they know something about me

Dad asks me if I’m alright.
I very clearly am not.  I have been trying to keep it together
So that no one will ask me what’s wrong.
“Yeah.” 
He doesn’t challenge the lie.
Minutes later I break the silence:
“Well,
I’m going home.”