A LIFETIME OF SMALL TALK

I'd love to chat but...

Descent

                    From flower to root

                                                          I stop here

                                                                                          To decay—reminisce

                                                                                                                                                  Putrefy

I place two chairs in a darkening meadow and sit. Everyone I have ever met in my life stands in a line that stretches from my feet to meandering miles beyond an outermost echo. Even now, I can't abide small talk. I tap the crystal of my watch, a gift from my Dad. This processional of faces will be torture, I suspect.

Remember me? I do. You were weeping in the rain. I remember your leaking mascara.

Is that you? Yes. I have not aged gracefully. The skin is the first to give up the truth.

I really wish you wrote more often. Me, too, Mom. Sometimes I didn’t on purpose.

You were my best friend. I’m sorry, who are you?

You broke my heart. I remember it differently. Who hung up on who?

I gave you a speeding ticket. I had a body in the trunk. Just kidding.

You had a big mouth. I hated working for you, dick.

Have you been to confession? No, Father, have you?

I still have your sweatshirt. Does your husband still wear it? He knew I went to Syracuse, right?

It’s a boy. Thank you. It's the best present I have ever received.

Good thing you didn’t get in the car. Your funeral was packed. I made out with your sister after.

I waited for you. You have no idea how much I loved you. You haunted me.

You were my patient. You pulled the wrong tooth. Every dentist after told me that.

You’re a fat pig. I always wished I had smashed your face with my bookbag.

Remember Mexican Hitler? I laughed so hard I cried. What was that guy’s name?

I heard you moaning through the walls. That was a bad fucking day. I left scars on the paint.

You hit two home runs off me. It was nice to be king for a day. It doesn’t happen often.

We never did grab lunch. Well, it’s too late now.

I talked for days. It was seconds, though, truth be told. Years compressed and released in a flash, flame to fuse to ash. The last in line is wearing a flowing black tunic. I cannot see his face lost deep in a cavernous hood. He taps my forehead with his curved blade. I clutch his elbow as the rescue squad screams down the street, a climax in blurring white and red. They will take what remains. I left the Timex, stopped.

                                                                                                                                                                               Ascent

                                                                                                        From root to flower        

                                                                          I begin here

                               To live—commence

  Rematerialize