March 12, 2012
It's a still life watercolor, of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows washed the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference, like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation, and the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
And you read your Emily Dickinson; and I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with book markers that measure what we've lost.
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm, couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time
And the dangling conversation, and the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes, we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?" "Is the theater really dead?"
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand
You're a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation, and the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives.