That Kind Of Woman

It’s a bad ritual.

We’d collect
our thoughts
together
for the week and
find scraps of used paper,
receipts,
napkins
and litter

We’d write down
what we couldn’t say to others
polite etiquette
dampening our palettes
readying us for courtesy

Don’t tell them no
say no thank you.

Don’t be impolite
it’s just not becoming.

Written notes
on the things
we’d wished
we could have said

Wished we could
have delivered our witty
remarks
directly to
the source
of our intentions

Saunter up to them
indifferent to the social
niceties
that made custom
customary

Instead
collected
we’d find 
a place to burn
the words put on paper

Compassionate to the 
thoughts and feelings
of others
but
not ourselves 

 *I’m no poet.