The cool man on the couch was not invited,

so he pretends, by brooding with beer and balled fists

in the cushion sag. So stoic, so wise, 

to be captive between friends

who warm the waters with talk of masks and traffic.

He squirms to save his manhood from the chatter,

as the people on each side laugh round his head,

trying to include, while he eludes them,

spry—impregnable!—and stone

in the certainty that he is right, they are dull,

and parties make us monkeys for connection. 

He is, in fact, the alpha 

of the apes.