We sit

We sit

We sit at the cafe table,
the sun warming our wit,
sipping lattes, frapuccinos,
expounding philosophic,
delighting ourselves
and maybe our listeners.

I tell mine
he is merely laminate layers,
experience that accumulated
into a world called his name,
and thus, he is cliched.

I tell him
his words are nothing
but synthesized sums
of all the authors
and philosophers he's read.

I love the intelligent timbre
of my voice
and my knowing nod
as he leans in,
listening, acquiescing,
learning this idea,
which diminishes him.

I smile
as he confides his fear of
delivering inarticulate drivel
into the ears of others.

I tell him to relax,
words will come
after the jumble of voices
inside his head
bake into his own.

Finally, I
bequeath my brilliance
with a memorized line from
Bartlett's Book of Quotations.