Small Talk

Your morning is a bear sighting
that leaves me without feeling in my feet.
Toast, slipper, spoon, detergent.
We scrape the room for distractions.
There are too many chores to chase
and reflections to avoid.
You speak small fish to the dog,
the neighbor, the plants.
It always starts with precipitation
or the direction of the wind.
I’m clearing dishes when your question
blows open like a back door.
You would rather be alone,
wouldn’t you?

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