Like gutters into a conduit, the flood of conversation
is constant, discharging pearls amongst debris,
each demanding attention.
Overwhelmed, I shift between them,
losing all sense of continuity nor hope of participation.
I do my best. Though.
My occasional interjection
is always passive and betrays my breadth of subject range;
less dialogue than confirmation.
You are here, it seems, but do not hear.
Your place, the space you occupy is your platform not your scaffold.
Your lips are flickering, shaping words that remain soundless,
untold.
You carry a poise of poignancy, frustration and perseverance.
Yet, on your tongue is a seam of gold
yet undiscovered, les mots justes.
Yours could be the splicing that pulls these loose lines in to hold.
He is a pleasant mind to listen to in private company,
but he doesn’t say a lot when in a crowd.
In such social situations, his discomfort is inescapable,
though his drops freshen more than some who pour aloud.
Less disconnected than misconnected –
not aloof but off-centre: more unsure than cowed.
You should hear this: accept your invitation.
You’re looking for an excuse to stand and watch through glass,
your brief entry thanks to others opening windows. Assert
yourself, infer permission not to let the moment pass.
I am justly here. My voice adds to this room, my view attends.
We shall all hear. As I shall speak unto these gathered friends.
(c) Andrew Halsall Smith 2018
