She had a plaintive look
at the post office
as she stopped in passing
and squared her heels
against
the bottom row of chrome
P.O. boxes.
“Talk to me,” her eyes
requested.
Small talk.
The weather.
How’s your daughter?
But she said nothing,
And he just said “hello,”
sliding by as if he were on
a desparate errand.
He did remember her first
name, for once,
but to say it might betray
some interest in talking.
And he could no more talk
small talk
than she could comfortably
return it.
They both wished that
they had such grace
that they could share some
words
and not be so aware
of the words they chose,
or of the books that
they had been reading.
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