Small Talk
Small talk
Small talk.
Why small?
Small words?
Small subjects?
Small attention … span?
Spanning the space between you and me with …
Small talk.
What if my words are bigger than yours?
Or smaller?
If they’re the same size, could they crash in the middle, shattering into slivers of even smaller small talk?
Corpsing, isn’t that what they call it when you’re struck dumb on stage?
Mind blank,
Tongue stuck,
No words on the page.
Choking on …
Small talk.
If they gave it a different name, it might be easier to swallow,
But small is pejorative
Like it’s not really worth seeing.
Small, like an ant on the floor,
Trodden on without feeling.
The stage is set,
The words are queuing
Schooled and ready to go.
The assembly of small talk humming
Pitch perfect
Unbroken
Woke and woken
Spoke and spoken
Why does everyone know how to do it …
Except me?
Did their mothers tell them about the right size to use?
How flirting with small ones is the first stage of courting the big ones?
Like dogs sniffing under tails
Checking who’s who, friend or foe.
But sometimes, the tension just gets too much
Rising in a rush of Tourette’s,
The words pulling away like greyhounds, desperate to go.
Words like
Biscuit
Pants
Or fuck you!
This always sends a ripple through the flow,
But I’m still game and determined to hang in.
Sometimes, it helps to focus on other things,
Like a button or a twitch.
So far, so good, no awkward pauses,
The sort that leaves me staring into someone’s cleavage.
It’s not that I mean to or really care
It’s just that I can’t meet her eyes, so mine go down there.
Sculpted breasts, marble mammaries
That’s what I’m thinking, and it’s on the tip of my tongue,
But just before the words break out
I’m accosted by what I call the small talk bum.
He’s no right to be here, doesn’t know the rules,
But has tried everyone else, so there’s just me left.
I’m a vacant plot, a park bench, a freebie.
He’ll use his words to pin me down
Then violate what’s left with his tongue.
He’s trying to hold me, eye on eye
His silence screaming “your mine!”
As I think you’ve already guessed
I’m gauche
And shy
And can only do what I do best.
So I drop my eye and focus on his fly and think of small …
Talk.
Except that sometimes, in some places where it’s least expected and when I’m least prepared
The small talk flies,
Words meeting words with wings that sing and hover
But never too high and never too low
Just somewhere in the space where they’re supposed to go.
Wherever that is.
Whatever the thing is,
This small talk.
