I hate the way you walk so slow,
And the way you all dress in the same neon t-shirts.
I hate the way you travel in crowds.
I hate it when you stare asking, “where is Chinatown”
I hate your big fat name tags,
And the way you occupy museums to full capacity.
I hate you so much that it makes me dread cherry blossom season,
It even makes me stay in.
I hate the way the metro likes you more.
I hate it when you arrive downtown in no more than seven minutes.
I hate it when you speak to me,
Even worse, you make me feel important saying “the White House is two blocks away on Pennsylvania Avenue.”
I hate it when you flock home for winter,
And the fact you don’t know the single tracking struggle.
But mostly I hate the way I don’t hate you,
Not even close, not when I sometimes feel the way you do: lost and afraid hoping for a kind Washingtonian to come along.