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 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