Infamy is not in the cards tonight,
and so I remain at the hands of boredom,
comforted only by the silent caresses of the fireplace.
What I have now is time to ponder
of wrongdoing and reformation,
arguments with myself and a forgetting of it all.
The rug grows sparsely at my feet,
parting its worn pink threads like a giant treading on a sea of coral.
But it would be only dying coral, exhausted and lifeless after
a drawn-out night of thinking.