The Surface

They're all afraid to scratch the surface,
Afraid to gaze upon the substrate
stripped of glaze.
I have a pack of printed cards,
The type one orders for one's business.
I try to give them out to those
I meet in casual consultations.
(Rare occasions, I admit.)
Invariably, in the rush to leave,
The card is abandoned, unless I remind them
To pocket it; and subsequently,
They never follow the card's instructions
On how to visit my life's productions.
Why is this?
If I befriend a painter or potter,
I'll gladly go to a gallery
To see that artist's handiwork;
Similarly, I'd want to hear
Sonatas composed by a chance acquaintance.
But even those who become familiar
With me in every sense, save one,
Express no curiosity
For what I do or what I've done,
Except in vague, superficial fashion,
Briefly, once, to be ignored.
The shiny surface must be preserved!
What is this widespread fear of engagement,
Of delving below the bland veneer?
Are they afraid of real communion,
An unclad, unencumbered soul
Exposed to the ears and eyes of another?