There was a time when

A thing called bor-ed-om

Existed

Sometimes I wonder how

It would be now, to have

It once more

The silent anticipation of

Finding something to do

But accidentally passing

The time by trying to

Figure it out

Sitting in a chair or on

The floor looking up to

The ceiling as if

It could give us any kind

Of idea, as if it cared at

All

Then having your bones

Ache and groan for laying

Around for so long

Other than just getting

Up and living

—Oh, the times

I suppose there’s a

Reason the past is

Left where it is.