None of us knows how
to make small talk.

So we watch the rain loosen
its tie, begin a slow sashay.

All week grey hung
like a low angry fruit.

Now every window weeps,
is a taped off crime scene.

Horns in the distance—
traffic lights are down.

One by one we drain
our link to the collective.

This could be the end
and none of us knows

how to tell. Someone,
bored, unearths a book

along with the memo
on going paperless.