People ask for so little.
That is half the trouble, there.
If they asked for great gobbets
of self, more than any could spare,
mansions of effort and patience and years—
you could turn and reject
with a righteous shudder: Title
to all I possess can’t be yours.
But they need, so often, such small
fruit—a phrase on the phone, a sunset
stroll, a coffee pot shared—and, still, you’re not there.