Maybe it’s me. Why does it seem so hard
To keep on good terms with other people?
One day they’re warm, they smile at every word,
The next they’re frosty, silent, so fickle.
Maybe the mystery’s insoluble,
Or maybe it’s nothing to do with me.
We all assume that we’re responsible
For others’ behaviour, but, well, are we?
When someone dies, just blame mortality;
Don’t shoulder the burden: that’s so absurd.
And if that full shopping bag should topple
And contents spill, then still go on calmly.
Even I can’t do what I know I should,
So why should objects or other people?
28 Jan 2008
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