The Dangling Conversation
It's a still life water color,Of a now late afternoon,As the sun shines through the curtained laceAnd shadows wash the room.And we sit and drink our coffeeCouched in our indifference,Like shells upon the shoreYou can hear the ocean roarIn the dangling conversationAnd 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 bookmarkersThat measure what we've lost.Like a poem poorly writtenWe are verses out of rhythm,Couplets out of rhyme,In syncopated timeLost in the dangling conversationAnd 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 fadedAnd I only kiss your shadow,I cannot feel your hand,You're a stranger now unto meLost in the dangling conversation.And the superficial sighs,In the borders of our lives.