What is sequence,

to one without sequencing?

The one, two, three,

in a world where all beyond two can jumble?

 

What is protocol,

to the person with a tentative hold on simultaneous sense of self and other,

the concept of 'us', so lost easily in the chaos?

 

What is 'hold that thought',

in confetti mind of fragmented thoughts,

when left ungrounded by actions or notes,

become nomadic, jutting, strands of incoherence?

 

What is respect,

when holding one's own mind is already Mt Everest,

a tidal soup of co-morbid psychiatrica

and perceptual labyrinths.

 

What is listen,

without global concepts to underpin understanding,

instead awash in strings of helpfulness.

The listener flails in the waves.

 

The trick dog wags with friendly demeanour,

and hopes that rote will work where understanding fails.

 

The team continues to trust.

Santa's elf attends carefully to stick to the wish list.