The Cult of the Reasonable Man

He never made mistakes big enough to remember.
Spoke in tones that left no bruise.
Chose well. Slept fine.
Never chased anything that could humiliate him.

There was a quiet pride in how untouched he stayed.
He never bled in front of anyone.
Never broke the glass, never begged at the door.
He wanted nothing badly enough to lose dignity for it.

He aged like paper —
never torn, just yellowing.
Always intact. Always almost profound.
And when he left the room, nothing changed.

No one hated him.
No one wrote poems about him either.

He was what people mean when they say “a good man.”
And what they feel when they don’t say anything at all.