Quiet Time

Set aside a minute.
Adopt the face of someone being listened to.

Address your invisible companion,
that well-trained friend from childhood
who never quite moved out,
only took on better vocabulary.

He is attentive, of course.
He has your timing, your taste,
your way of arriving, eventually,
at what you had in mind.

Ask for strength.
Ask for signs.
Ask for whatever sounds respectable.

Then wait, with a look of effort,
while nothing interrupts
the careful manufacture of reply.

There it is.
Clear, reassuring,
uncannily familiar.

You thank him.
It feels productive.
Like posting a thought
and liking it yourself.

Meanwhile, the world
keeps its distance.
Things happen without consultation.
Doors close. Weather turns.

But you have checked in.
You have maintained the relationship.

And he, dependable as ever,
has agreed with you again.