Small Talk

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Or discuss doors. Objects. But have a limit

Of how many objects about which you are willing

To make conversation. Say, twenty. Because you do not

Want to be the one who discusses things until they disappear.

Discuss literature, perhaps! Or proper safety when repairing

A garage door. All things are of supreme importance at all times.

Or discuss tea. Or how a cat always lands on its feet.

Not a miraculous event, yet one must marvel. The world is so large

And so small, and so on. Everything contains everything else.

Or discuss dogs. Really get down to brass tacks about dogs.

Because no one else is going to get to the bottom of this.

Think it through. Or don't. Speak on behalf of the permanence

Of things, of industrious elbows jabbing through the mire

Towards the brilliance of tomorrow. Or don’t. Or speak truly

About true things—the beginning of a forest fire, a dream

Of stolen horses, the purple hills closing in on the dam,

A mouth opening in the dead of night, the souls of rabbits,

The thousand cardboard boxes of your life, the disappearance

Of a saint. Speak plainly and without distortion. Speak

Of that work party around Christmas when you fell asleep

Drunk on that pile of winter coats in your boss’s bedroom.

In the dark, with the blue chatter rattling around the house,

Someone came in and kissed you on the cheek. How you woke

Up a few seconds later, still in darkness, and got up to investigate.

You wandered around the house talking to all your co-workers,

Trying to figure out who planted that kiss on you. Even now

You wonder. Even now your heart goes light as ashes climbing

To the stars. Speak on that. Or don’t. Talk about the idiocy

Of spinning planets. How everything is too much and not enough.

Okay, maybe don’t bring that up. Maybe stick to the weather—

At least this time around.