What's going on here? Hey.

When writing a poem feels like something illicit -

when I sat on the floor of Monica's office writing my lines which

alternated with hers and those guys came in to put together the chair, it was weird. I had my feet stretched out and papers all around and they looked at me like maybe we/I were/was doing something illicit, Monica down the hall for a moment, and I suppose we were, blindly writing a sestina after taking a tour of the downtown rooftops and lunch at Doc Chey's, the new carpet smell guaranteed to cause cancer of some sort, and now the adminstrators have redesigned this place as well, anyway, I just continued to write my lines and made some jokes about the plastic wrapped pieces (not following instructions) to which the chair guys didn't respond. I was an oddity to them so they pretended I was invisible, and that was kind of funny, though the novelty of hanging around writing a poem shifted toward wanting to go outside again, which we did. We got our sestina anyway, but I concealed my task from those chair guys. That is, I wrote openly in front of them as if doing so were some kind of obscenity, but I did not speak about the writing at all, so this made it sort of furtive, like if I was to say, hey guys what's up, we're just writing a poem, huh, as if it were not the most ordinary activity of all?