A Tool Box For The Temporarily Insane (Poem)

I listen to story after story depicting the beloved

Hear again and again the desperate repeated pleas that beg

Doesn’t this act these words that look mean I am loved in return?

I marvel at the furious storm and the abandon of all measure.

So many applaud this loss of control, celebrate such madness in so many ways,

Even term it holy and divine, casting those who do not succumb as suspect and odd.

I’ve been a listener all of my life, this same tale told many a time.

I tried to mimic it myself but very poorly so gave up in relief.

My impulse is to offer remedy, or at least a caution that the gaudy painted carousel

Looks much different when the fair is closed.

I restrain myself unless explicitly asked.

Most only want a sympathetic ear, warm words of encouragement,

And then a bandage for their broken heart.

All these tools I keep on hand.