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.
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