Used to be proud
to be on the shortlist of
everyone’s go-to.
Used to be ready for that
at a snap of boss fingers.

I could shake
anyone’s hand. I was
honored more or less
by others for my prowess
at being. He is wise,
they’d say. It is 
fruitful when he
is called upon
and so we call upon him.

Used to be plenty.
Now I am empty.
They don’t call
for me; they don’t 
ask for advice and no one
needs my touch or my voice;
my hands are clumsy,
my words are dead-salty.
I’m too much, or is it
that I’m not enough?

I keep the birds fed now.
I keep the cats fat. It is good
to be of some use. It is good
to look down and say, if no one
listens to me the least I can do 
is try to replace praise from without 
with benign neglect within 
while I maintain
the little I do control
for others, for the birds.
It’s almost like work,
a small way to be of some use,
which is all
I’ve ever asked for.