What to talk about?
We could discuss so many things:

the killing of gnats as they buzz by;
the longing for death for our President;

how many shots of whisky are needed before
we pass out, there on a warped pine floor;

the differences between whisky and whiskey
(one with no “e” and one with an “e”);

how one makes love when there is little enough
in the world, how one squeezes it out of the self

as if from a tube — frayed, crumpled,
cracked in spots even but still holding,

still holding on; marvelous spinning
of words and earth itself on an axis someone postulated

long, long ago; even the contemplation
of one’s aged and cold fingers attempting to type

these words, these dear fragile words
onto a screen. We could speak of these things —

or instead we could be silent; let them be still
and let them be noiselessly in our thoughts

as we sit and wonder about the nature of things;
we could sit and let them fall aside, by the wayside;

words like paper scraps, walked and trampled
quietly, underfoot for another to choose from.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T