Small talk

small talk poem - flooded room photoart @hanginguptodry
the flooded room @hanginguptodry

“I’m having a memory test with the doctor” she confided with a half-hearted chuckle as if to sidestep the applicability. We were making conversation in the waiting minutes before our appointed times. Knowing the routine I shared examples of tasks to expect .
“Oh I can manage that – I’m an artist and I mostly win at scrabble.”
None of which accounted for the need for attention-grabbing post-it notes placed liked stepping stones on her floor or the number of burnt saucepans as she wandered off to attend to things elsewhere.
We were about the same age. She did not appear to be unscrambling and joining the legion of the lost minds but membership is granted long before we apply. I pray no one has submitted her name – nor mine.


In the right hemisphere a pictorial phosphorescence
revolves light as regular as watchtower beams
cut the night. Nameless shards formed from vapour
in shades of shapely hue fill volumes
without murmuring a word. This zealous treasury
of art now worthless impressions upon her memory

Fresh off the page, some prose and a quadrille for small talk at the Dverse Poets Pub: open link night #179


  1. Oh this is so familiar, Laura. I just hate it when names, words and memories slip into black holes or when, just for a moment, that watchtower light disappears. I can’t type the way I used to and sometimes it comes out as nonsense – not great for someone who thinks of herself as a writer,


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