There was a conversation I had—
Superficial when I laughed;
Sincere, when I was sad.
I’m thinking, where is this conversation going?
Why do I hang between ignorance and knowing?
I’m sorry I don’t understand the poem.
Why is life a conversation,
Suddenly in the middle, and never done?
Either I agree or disagree,
And then, after that, do I have to reply?
Why did I chuckle? Who am I?
Why is silence so uncomfortable?
I’m not forthcoming. Shame makes me dull.
I didn’t pick this conversation. I never do.
Otherwise it feels like someone’s coming after you.
People are great! But I hate these halting talks,
And the wordy observations we make on our walks.
If you only knew how I hate this. The full
Rot of it all. Rosalinda? Hey. Are you comfortable?