When we talk,
what should we talk about?
Flowers.
Weeds.
Flat
tires,
stomachs,
lines.

The gnomes
who roam.
Rome.
Phones.
Work.
Mold.
Getting old.
Being bald.

Family joy.
Family pain.
Music.
Art.
Dancing.

Everything we talk
about
that involves you,
that interests you,
interests me, and
involves me
emotionally.

I thought
what I was,
and what I was
doing,
was interesting.
I tried to involve
you,
because I thought
you, like me,
like me enough
to want to know;
to want to hear;
to want to be involved
in every nuance,
every iota,
every miniscule
minutea.

Why did I want to share “that”,
or anything,
all,
or at all,
with you?
Because I thought I,
and it,
was interesting.

Thank you
for pointing out
some things,
to you,
are not.

Thank you
for asking:
“Why did you feel
you needed
to share
that with me?”

That’s a good question.
I didn’t think
about it.
There was no reason.
I didn’t think
about any reason.
I just wanted
to share
part of my life.
An event that happened.
A quirky experience
I had with a friend,
that I wanted to share
with a friend,
thinking that friend
might be interested.

It’s silly of me
to think everything
in my life
is interesting
to you.

I guess I thought that it was true
because everything that happens to you,
to me,
is.