Disillusionment

Twenty say thirty years past, I imagined
By now I'd have met at least one example
Of a person with more than a passive interest
In the life of another, explicitly: mine.
Yet time limps on,
And nary a lover or friend inquires
About what I'm doing, what creations I'm spawning,
What frustrations I'm facing, or simpler stuff--
Any detail, really.
Instead, they are so sublimely self-centered
On the machinations of quotidian cares
That they rarely stray from the basest of topics:
They babblety-blab about doodads and dentists,
Plumbing and parties, or getting nails polished,
Where to eat next, or how goes the diet,
Or worse, they will reel off domestic dramas,
Or some petty godawful popular trend.
I sit there and listen, and nod, and uh-huh them,
And ask a sincere-sounding question or two.
At times my demeanor is sympathetic,
Or maybe encouragement fits the mood.
Regardless, engagement is not bidirectional;
When they are done yakking, the seance is through,
The spirits retreat to their featureless planets,
For their worlds are all surface, no substance beneath them,
And they are mere shadows projected on skin.