|
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 alliance |
|
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 alliance |
|
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 alliance |