Soft Machine

Keeping his own counsel is easy.  He’s a pebble on the beach.

The child who comes home to find his father unconscious
on the kitchen floor and nobody else in soon learns
to stop using words like why and if that point the finger.

An ambulance’s disappearing lights don’t take fear with them.

So pretty soon, concealment becomes a habit.  Things withheld,
not spoken of, help days go by like kindly dinner guests
who enjoy their meal but know they have to leave by midnight.

In sorrow, pretend to be fearless.  In happiness, tremble.

Ken Head

If you have any comments on this poem,  Ken Head would be pleased to hear from you.