Tuesday, December 24, 2002

The Dangling Conversation

by Paul Simon

It's a still-life watercolor
of a now late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain-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 conversations
and the superficial sighs,
the borders of our lives...

And you read your Emily Dickenson
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.
And the dangling conversations,
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 this dangling conversation,
And the superficial sighs,
in the borders of our lives.

I had forgotten how much Simon and Garfunkel had their pulse on my world. How eloquently they describe the foibles of life, love, death. Such poignancy. Makes me weep.

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