Hard Of Hearing

Not hard of hearing, no, nor as ‘accused’
selectiveness, although within the middle
years there were occasions where, for
sure, that posit landed square

Was acculturated stew you’d say – an
owlish view of wide-eyed wonderment, a
melting pot of years where failed acuity in
hearing didn’t mean you were impaired

Or not particularly, tho’ a rood to bear in
company – and conversations where you
were quite ill at ease, at loss to what was
really said and meant to whom by who

With moments to recall of bon mots vest
in les majesté bemused with insult nested
gestures – all at worst receptions cursed
derisively to play their sameness game

So you ran its course and talked the talk
taming oddness in discerning how you’d
dodge an impropriety confused in words
you’d never choose, or rarely dared

Years enhanced a better hand as wearing
aids to hear suggests a conscience matter
less in what was missed per se than better
guessed at what was seen the true intent

Then, perhaps – selectiveness emerged;
a heady grip on sanity right where your
choice remained that privileged view to
choose what you had deemed you heard

Gladly let it rest; be assured that I’ll not
care to fill my ears within the World with
random sounds of choice – there are but
few renowned besides your dulcet voice
© 1 August 2013, I. D. Carswell