The Language of Boredom

Like how birds speak
And beg their desires,
I understand the language
Of the tree and its foliage
Across from the balcony
Where I sit to expect
The cadence of leaves
The rhythm of branches
Swaying and breaking
To the sounds of wind,
To the various yellows
Of the September sun.

I am as stubborn
As the worm or the wasp
Alone in its search
For sense and meaning
I vaguely see all morning,
I faintly hear all day
Among echoes and murmurs
Puzzling and embarrassing me
Like they come from the audience
Watching me in a plastic chair
Burn sticks of red Marlboros,
Sip black, sugarless coffee.

I loved the second stanza Miyako, which seemed to obliterate the first one completely.

Thanks, Delta. I intended the first to be romantic and the second to be neurotic and to negate the misleading first stanza.