SMALL TALK

You have better things to do.
Knead dough, dust shelves, floss,
when I want you here to tell me
what to write, or at least walk by,
as you do, stirring into the air 
your giveaway ginger scent
that streams me faster into
time’s sickening quickness.
Give me more sentences
and lines of certain doubt.
Talk to me. Tell me anything. 

AND WE ARE WHERE?

The branch,
the squirrel 
I can’t see,
already gone
while the branch
still nods and bows
and remembers us.