The Dangling Conversation

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 places 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 dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives.

Yes we speak of thing that matter
With words that must be said,
"Can analysis be worthwhile?
Is the theatre really dead?"
Now 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.

Пол Саймон
"Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme", 1966
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