Bad Habit

 

I had developed a habit

of only half-listening

When he talked.

 

If it had been just the two of us,

I might have walked

The extra mile with him.

 

I might have asked him

About his days in Bimini,

Sailing the blue seas.

 

I might have liked to know more

About his fondness for soft cheese,

The riper the better.

 

I might have wanted to pet

His prized Irish Setter

and take him for a run.

 

I might have enjoyed

Sitting in the sun,

With his friend Bloom,

 

Shooting the breeze.

But in that room,

Surrounded by folks

 

Who hung on his every

Word as if it were gold,

Something flared

 

In me, and I didn’t

Want to know. Spare

me the boring details,

 

I said to myself.

It totally fails

As far as I’m concerned.

 

His reality, for me,

Was like a play turned

Inside out. It lacked

 

The sense of a beginning

And an ending, packed

With cheap tricks.