She wants to talk about the weather,
asks about my weekend plans while I’m
still trying to form a sentence worthy
of describing the locomotion of clouds
and how the drizzle of dew danced
this morning framed like a vintage photograph
by the blades of crabgrass and ivy’s trance
around the window frames, but she is talking
about something else now. A Saturday sport
and how someone whose name
I don’t remember is visiting someone else
I don’t know and why can’t I remember
and am I not really going anyplace with anyone?
What about Sunday?
I want to say slow down please.
There is still a thing to say about the last thing
and you might also be interested to know how
the moon got its shape. But. She says
it’s rude to talk about things like that, things
that no one else is interested in
things like the thoughts I have about
hobbit houses and underground libraries and
other places where no one would actually
want to go because people need to live
with other people so they can talk about
important things that matter like sports and
other people and that’s what small talk is.
Small talk isn’t lemons or black telescope goldfish
or the origins of totalitarianism, small talk is
beautifully simple like
how are you but don’t answer that
and hope you are doing well but not really.
She says I need to get out more, get cultured,
get my feet wet and I think I
got my feet wet yesterday and
she’s talking about something, I know she is, but
you know what is really interesting?
Ants walk in a line and leave a scent path behind
so other ants don’t get lost.