Small Talk
May 4 2008


There is small talk
strapped-in, taking-off.
Where to? . . .where’s home?
nervous jokes,
jostling politely over the arm rest.
The last living person you would cling to
dropping from the sky like a stone.
And to think, you’d have never even known his name.

There is small talk
you were almost too old when you learned.
How to tease, how to flirt
how much fun it is to play;
and how safe,
because it never goes further than words.
How giddy you feel
how full of possibility,
flirting with the cliff-edge of mischief.

There is small talk
seated at a formal dinner,
no religion or politics permitted.
Dishing gossip, TV shows
how unseasonably cold it is
— like a cocktail glass of words, lightly stirred
tinkling brightly down.
Or soda pop that’s lost its fizz
well before it’s served.

But it’s left alone
I really need to be heard.
Which is when I mutter under my breath
or find myself talking to God,
imploring
scorning
shaking my fist
— angry monologues, with a silent God
I don’t even believe exists.
But I persist
making small talk to myself,
hoping someone’s listening-in.