Recluse

by Cheryl Merrick

Finding superficial
conversations tiring,
I minimize them.

Determining the running of errands
to be inefficient,
I shop from home.

Wounded by glazed looks
and uncomprehending stares
when sharing an idea,
I rarely present one.


To the unappreciative,
I no longer proffer
my poems.

Tiring of their
tedious soliloquies,
I avoid such interactions.

Exhausted by their
emotional dumping,
I make few calls.

Being expected
simply to listen
and provide them with excuses,
I shun visiting.

Frustrated by their
unwillingness to change,
I offer few solutions.

Chafing in this narrow
social niche allotted me
of soothing their
troubled consciences,

I choose, instead, to turn,
as many idealists before me,
to an inner world
of written thoughts,
where illuminated by ideals,
kindred spirts dwell.