Maladies of a Historian's Son

There’s a quiet knock on the door
It must be my regrets come to call
On me. Drink some tea.
Spill some crumbs.
Irk me.
They said they'd arrive at eight.

My family are the next to arrive.
The ones I love too close
They are. Like scars.
The ones I really like,
Too far.
My family is rarely late.

And they proceed to get well acquainted.
Helping each other. Passing the buscuits.
As they enumerate my flaws
In the small pauses between their pointing fingers.

I diligently archive their lists
For future reference.