By: Richard D. Hartwell 

Not for the first time,
Perhaps for the last,
I note this is no monologue,
Rather a continuing, one-sided dialogue.

You,
Sitting there embalmed
On your judgmental stool.

You,
Calling yourself a person of discourse
Are instead discordant and dissonant.

You,
A person of broken parts,
Ramrod straight, legs crossed, arms locked.

You,
Still closed to conversation,
Bereft of all emotion.

Have you heard me?
Do you see me?
Do you care about anything
I’ve been saying?

Why do you continue
This pretense of listening
While I chatter on,
Mollifying me,
Thinking I’m about to lose it,
Waiting for me to take a breath
So you can tell me
Where I’ve gone wrong,
Again,
How I’ve misinterpreted
Your actions,
Again,
Your looks,
Again,
Why I’m at fault,
Again,
Rather than you,
Let alone admit to
Sharing the blame,
As a we,
For our silent discord?

I cannot engage you in further chatter.
The whine of your silence
Cancels out the din of my needs.
It is no longer my job to say
I’m sorry for what it is
You’ve done.

No,
Don’t bother to get up,
I was just going.
kicking leaves in fall
shoveling winter snow paths
now planting spring trees

thoughts of that-was-then
only serve to fuel regrets for
all what-might-have-beens

forever’s so long
longer than is my patience
waiting on myself