Faking Laughter

“Nemo est insula”
is the first thing that comes to mind.
I imagine a balding sage say
these words as his fingers twine
around a graying beard,
as his failing eyes sight some distant shore.
What do those words mean, again?
No man is an island . . .
Every man is an island . . . ?
It must be the latter, I suppose.
The idea seems lonely, but it could be worse.
An island itself has its inner parts—
the sand, the trees, the grass.
Japan has its islands. Hawaii does, too.
My feelings are more like those of
malignant tumors, the dark mass of
a cavity in a molar that always missed the brush.
When was it that I first started reacting this way?
Seconds pass as she looks at me expectantly
before the muscles above my lip tighten
and I force out a laugh.
Saying that we are friends,
what do those words mean, again?
No man is an island . . .
Every man is an island . . . ?