always at the doctor’s office,
the grocery store or a restaurant –
this arrivederci of the witless,
stoic as a smile button pinned to the lips,
a one-day-only sale I hear all the time
echoing like the syllables of crows.
There’s a smell of cheap perfume to it,
like incense at a church service
that keeps me at a distance.
Maybe I should turn the locution
into the kind of dialogue Socrates had
with the soothsayers and Sophists.
Imagine their surprise
as I bring out the truth of their admission
like a gadfly or midwife.
But then again,
maybe Caesar said it best: "You too… ."