There is nothing to commend it

There is nothing to commend it

There are no manuals,

Self-help books

Make good doorstops.

The only people who know how

To respond to a crisis

Are professionals

At life

And the best we can hope for

Is to be gifted amateurs.

Roaming eyes slide away

From passing strangers

Nobody wants to be accused

Of trying too hard

To be friendly.

If you come out in hives

Then don’t bother

There is a fear of being recognised

Targeted as needy.

Conversations sound better

On the inside

Before they slip out through tightly

Stitched lips.

Button it

Zip it

Keep your own counsel

It has nowhere else to go.

The wisest of us say no

Until we know when to say yes.

It is not only the narcissist

Who uses a mirror to practice

Appropriate responses.

There is nothing to commend

Self-absorption

But people begin to disappear

Into themselves

With every day that passes.

Fearing the pain of loss

Will only intensify

When they accept an invitation

To reveal their vulnerability.

Why do it at all

When you can write it down,

Pour out your heart

On the page,

Rip the words out of your soul.

Drip them out

One line at a time

Post online

In a blood-letting

Of authenticity.

Handwrite them on Velum

Handbound in calfskin

Stored in a drawer

Of a vanity unit

Used as a desk in a bedroom

Once shared with somebody

Who might have talked you out of it

Until you became a master

Of quality-control,

A rhythm King

A token wordsmith,

Perhaps you would have listened.