Their smiles were well meaning

as they outstretched their hands,

on that I could not fault them,

I will not, after all, denounce anyone

unless they have been a dick

to me or tried to blacken my name

and even then I only rarely

forget my standards and actually

talk about them

but why give them the satisfaction.

On the corner of Hardman and Hope

I talk briefly with a magical lady,

poetry is the order of the conversation

and my regret of not being able to attend

that night, when the smile hits me,

the shake of the hand,

the racing thoughts of what next

bouncing, careering, through

my mind like a series of out of control

snooker balls flying round

the green baize; smashing, chipping,

the odd one finding respite

in a pocket made of spider webs…

I lie

when you ask me how

I ended

in the condition I was in

and come out with a new line

to your smiling face

that it was caused by a rampaging elephant;

your genuine concern made me feel bad,

the balance redressed

when you asked if you could pray

for me. I shuddered at the thought,

the rude atheist in your eyes

but I was gentle, explained

that if it made you feel better

then go ahead, knock yourself out

but don’t involve me in the plan

of a God.

Thinking back, I wonder if you were

just being kind, you were not to know

my feelings and at least you meant well,

unlike those who shoot your self esteem

by asking publicly,

if you still write.

 

Ian D. Hall 2016