Autopilot, by Greg Santos

Autopilot

Sometimes I feel sad,
or rather I feel unwell
without really knowing why
but knowing you are out there reading me
makes me feel like dancing.

Not the type of dancing you do
when you’re in a bar and everyone around you
is dancing to music you don’t really like
but they seem to be having a good time
and you don’t want them to think
you’re not enjoying yourself
like that sad guy over there in the corner
who looks like he was a sea captain
who lost both his crew and his ship
to a giant squid
but still wants to go back out to sea
so he can avenge their deaths
but who is now terrified of the ocean
and will not step foot outside when it rains
or bathe or even have a mouthful of soup.
No, you don’t want to look like that Killjoy McGee.

So you dance a little more eagerly
and although you’re a little stiff, that’s ok,
because you’re trying to do ‘the robot’
and your moves are supposed to look stiff.
You don’t win any prizes
but people respect your effort and enthusiasm.
Some of them even pat you on the back,
slap you a couple of high-fives,
and ask you where you learned your dance skills.

Prompting you to answer,
amid some heavy breathing from all the exercise,
that you’re an autodidact. They, of course,
mishear you and think you said ‘autopilot’
so some of them smile and nod politely
but many of them aren’t as forgiving
and they blow you off
because they think you’re a tool
but you’re cool with that
because people who judge others that quickly
aren’t the type of friends
you’re interested in befriending in the first place.

Knowing you are out there reading me
makes me feel like dancing.
Not in the way I just described
but it comes close.
Very, very close.