Second Fiddle

You wait your turn,
patient, understanding.
You do not have the
the right of first love,
nor even first refusal.
Not the first friend
they think of;
or if you are,
they'll call you later,
because - after all - you
appreciate any morsel
of their attention,
crumbs sprinkled to
mark a trail now
going cold.

Much later, when all
the other melodies
have played, the
last note of the
refrain evaporated,
when it's all said
and done (a cliché,
but useful shorthand),
you know exactly
what it's like:

because
you've been guilty
of the same
benign
neglect.