Kill me and take away the boredom

The conversation has muddied

with the course of an hour

and in the hour there is nothing

that has really been discovered.

Stuck in the morass of waiting

for that singular time

is as painful as living though

the stagnation and drowning

of all the years, he thinks.

The rumble of words trickles

down her face like a baby

in need of a bib. So musing,

he decides that this

is what it comes to,

birth to death,

a child to a child and sometimes

in the middle you’re a child too.

Some never really grow up,

they just wait a long

sixty, seventy, eighty years

to die as a dribbling child.