Evenings

When time is dragging slowly past itself,
And everything seems overly congealed,
When hours trickle off a plastic shelf
As if some massive stopper were unsealed
And life was leaking out, when all is gray,
Tinged over with an extra coat of black,
I sit and wonder useless things, and they,
As bored as I am, sit and wonder back.
Between us there is some unspoken bond
That keeps us from investigating more
The only topic to which we respond:
The question of what might have gone before.
And even that is constantly not new;
It's only ever some small thought of you.