Small Talk

words wasted in habitual conversation

 

You ask how I’m doing and I say “Oh, I can’t complain”

knowing you don’t really care anyway

we engage in a waltz of words.

You step left with an “It’s a beautiful day”

I match with a “Yeah, it’s ok.”

We trample the floor leaving a trail of empty expressions.

Novice to society’s hold on naked conversations.

You tell a second grade “Why did the chicken cross the road?” joke.

I bellow a faux, robust chuckle

As our rhythm of small talk

comes to a peak

we saunter to salk

and rub our mind’s feet.

Our fastidious aiedus

Show our raw couths 

Our tongues still tingle with numbness.

Oh, how did the beauty of words come to this?