Conversation
It begins at a table, certainly
flat, less so level,
with an even number of chairs,
some sturdier than others, all
equally uncomfortable.
Sweating glasses stand
in wet rings, or jigsaw
puzzle pieces lie
scattered across the surface,
or a roadmap spreads out
with coffee stains
blurring its legend.
Maybe the Sunday paper is drawn
and quartered amid
the remains of breakfast.
Personal histories converge in words,
old grievances, new grief,
yesterday’s events to replay
or file away, a dream retold
though barely remembered.
We disperse but keep returning,
sometimes sitting, sometimes not,
reporting what we’ve found,
though never lost, what everyone
knew all along, again and again.
