It’s a still life watercolor 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, 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
“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