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 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