A Scene From An Old Soap Opera

There is an ongoing conversation,
All tapping fingers and patience,
Patterns on the wall and bad TV,

There is potential for critical distance,
The length of an arm on the couch,
Words that slip in the kitchen.

They play out a scene from an old soap opera,
A tired, simple drama of varied intentions
Stretched taut one spent whispered evening,

A balanced stab at normality,
They could try harder
But things are complicated,

The script keeps stuttering
And everything’s in close up,
The dissemination of casual daydreams continues.

They’re just reflections of the things they survey,

Interest these days is spread like a virus

And they’re left sitting, itching for something.

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