Who I Am Talking To
I don’t know who I am talking to.
I imagine you to be someone
Who can read.
Well, that narrows it down a little.
And someone who would
Read a poem.
Having culled out a majority
Of the human race,
I imagine the remaining few of you
To be interested in text
That is less sensational than thoughtful,
Less active than contemplative,
Less redundant than this sentence
Was going to be,
More interested in my thoughts
Than wives tend to be,
More curious about twenty-five lines
Than I would be, if they weren't mine,
More interested in a view of the world
Through the peepholes of someone else's eyes,
Than anyone without the patience of a saint or a mother.
That's it then. I am talking to my mother,
The saint who listens to her babbling child
Because, after all, listening
Is the language of love.
1.Who listens to you the way you long to be listened to? How do you feel about that person?
2.Who do you listen to with the “patience of a saint or a mother?”
3.How might your life be different if you were listened to more and if you listened more?