Pretention

It wears decorative black-rimmed glasses,
And walks into a waiting room
With a newly-bought pad of paper.
It sits down and takes a pen,
And through its plastic frames
Glances every now and then at the people
With their eyes transfixed on pointless points
So absorbed in their individual amusements,
In their own private miseries.
Eye contact is sin.

Pretention flips a page, poises its pen,
And writes a short poem about itself
And those who wait with it.