Friday, February 25, 2011

Small Talk.

The talk is so small.
Now I understand why it's called that.
So. Very. Small.

Can no one say anything worth saying?
Can no one open up
and pull out tangible things,
real things,
things that stir up something
more than drunk nights
and favourite spas?

People wine and dine
and talk like they're brushing past
a rack of clothes in a department store.
They feel the fabric,
checking how much they would have to pay
to get what they want--
is it cheap?
Will I like it once I take it home?

She giggles
and drinks her coffee,
one size smaller than his.
She's trying.
Attempting at petite;
inviting.
She leans,
brushing her hair out of her face,
touching her face,
wanting this more than he does.

He sits back,
telling stories he doesn't care about,
talking with his hands,
scratching his face,
gripping his own leg
with his uncomfortable hand.
He doesn't care.

Their words speak small talk,
their brains calculate.
They'll get up to leave.
It's a Friday night.
They're middle-aged.
She'll keep giggling.
He'll keep artificially grinning.
They'll go to her place,
and then
they'll fall in love

with someone
nine people
from now.

February 25, 2011

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