All the small things
That you say and do
Stack up in piles of well-intentioned rubbish,
Littering the place with half-finished plans and to-do lists
Which will never get done.
There isn’t a tick list big enough
To tackle all the problems
Which you place neatly at my door,
Each one a shiny, imperfect bauble reflecting the light.
Instead, that light is negated, smothered,
Under and behind and within
The psychological recycling you need to address,
Which you never will address,
I am still here, your emotional baggage handler,
Your personal refuse collector,
And I provide service with a smile
You never return.