Too Polite Poem by Paul Murdoch

Too polite to tilt the glass or
Flick accusing fingers high.
We smile and fain a petulant
Pose, Ignored by phantoms starched and pale.

Assiduous trails are etched upon the
Well-trod paths of ghosts and ghouls,
Free of this world's cares and woes
Their tenuous reputations soiled.

As tempers fray and synapse snap
The stifled rants of rage spill forth,
And twist the straining lips that
Tremble pent up pain untold.

Transfixed as tender fillet cools
And creamy, peppered, curdled rivers
Bleed with lipid, sanguine trails
That slow and stop, congealed.

Like dust we swathe a far-off moon
Abandoned to our thankless task,
While fellow dinners chat and chew
Removed from wretched wrath and gloom.

Enflamed with passion, murderous visions
Scan across our conscious view.
Now unrestrained by guilty chains
We stand up straight and sway.

'I'm here! Yes me! ' we scream our
Plight, beneath the tarnished trust
Of friends, who stare, aghast, still unaware
Of troubled palate, tortured mind.

Remorse descends and lucid
Thoughts return as waiters smile,
At simple folk who's manners slipped
And sunk beneath sad, hapless wit.

A small complaint, now out of place
Is all we had in mind.
Too meek and mild to hold this stance,
We buckle down and dine.