When there is nothing left but small talk,
like a sip of water, the silence goes smoothly
along with a bag of scorned books and a bundle
of letters conveniently undelivered on time.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
we can finally abandon all pretence of trying
to master the Voynichese of inherited scars
and never quite perceived inadequacies.

When there is nothing left but small talk,
the way to survive one more tepid cuppa
is to feign that somewhat bitter awe admirably,
and yet not to behave as we are expected to.