| It’s a still life water color, |
| Of a now late afternoon, |
| As the sun shines through the curtained lace |
| And shadows wash 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, |
| Are the borders of our lives. |
| And you read your Emily Dickinson, |
| And I my Robert Frost, |
| And we note our place with bookmarkers |
| That measure what we’ve lost. |
| Like a poem poorly written |
| We are verses out of rhythm, |
| Couplets out of rhyme, |
| In syncopated time |
| Lost in 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, |