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,

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

And The Dangled 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.