Something I found in some old scraps from high school that seems remarkably relevant to a passing mood that comes over me these days:

A Bird on the Bough

Brightly colored girls
smoke in the hallways, congregating
clouds of incomprehensible sound.

Through the windows the sun
beats rubber leaves,
a giant to the tipping plant
in what we will someday call home.

Like a bird I can hear and cock my head, unable to respond.
In the southern lakes of migration my plumes are a faded blue.

From the East, all of a sudden,
my clothing feels worn.
In the light no longer familiar---a sail at port,
my cotton sags.