The Listening Face
Nobody owns it,
But ultimately,
When we get right down
To basic truths,
So many people want
Much the same thing,
And try to avoid
Listening to
The actual words,
Even when they ask
How things are.
Some adopt a caring mask,
And wear their
Listening face,
With nods and tuts,
Shoulders hunched,
In a gentle lean forward,
Not too close,
Awareness of personal space
Completes the task.
When you answer the question
They really must ask.
And in just the right place
They squeeze your arm,
Truth to say,
They do you no harm.
It is those
Who wrinkle their nose,
And turn away.
Hiding their disgust,
As they know they must,
At what they have come to
Regard as weakness.
But even so,
There is little worse
Than the apathetic,
And comatose,
Who stifle a yawn,
Roll listless eyes
Up to the skies.
And adopt the mantle
Of the professionally vacant
And patently bored,
Who believe
Nothing of consequence
Ever really happens,
If they are not involved.
Without doubt,
Grieving is a cancer,
Even a good outcome
Can crush the fragile heart.
And the feeling
Of dread,
The confusion,
Feeling part alive
And most part dead,
Never leaves.
Lurking within the
Hard to reach
Parts of your brain,
Waiting to strike again,
When you least expect it.
And finally,
There are those,
The perfectly mannered,
Nicely polite,
And barely interested,
But thought they better
Ask, kind of people,
Who,
With due respect,
To them,
Do expect an end.
A chocolate box
Confection,
With story line
Convention.
That leads to love
And broken hearted mending,
Happy ever after ending,
That can be found in stages,
Like in a book,
You just need to look
And turn over pages,
Until eventually,
After many twists and turns,
You will reach the end,
With all the messy
Torn and bloodied strands,
Wrapped up,
With the strings neatly
Tied together,
In a pretty neat bow,
And by then you will know,
That when people ask
How you are,
In truth,
All they really want
Is for you to say,
‘Please, do not worry
I really am quite well,
And doing okay.
Can’t you tell?’