Talk is mostly small talk.
Despite all I’ve done,
all I know,
I can’t get by the weather,
her sweater,
how she’s done her hair.

I don’t understand
why it’s all so awkward.
It’s not that I expect
us to spill our heart’s insides
but a little mutual scraping
of that organ’s surface
should be possible.

Silence is unfriendly.
Attention is everything.
But nothing much is said.
And concentration
reaps no rewards.
Are we both just shy
and don’t have it in us
to speak freely?

“Good coffee,” I say.
“Yes, it is,” she replies.
In infant talk,
that’d be “dada”
“mama.”