October 2, 2007
By John Chen, Troy, OH

Boredom tastes like grits,
Bland and slow to swallow.
Boredom is dry as chapped lips,
Or overcooked turkey.
Boredom is the low, subtle snore,
Of the refrigerator.
Boredom is the monotonous tone,
Of airplanes droning in the distance,
Boredom is the song of faraway trains
Boredom is the incessant ring,
Of an unanswered telephone.
Boredom is the carefree melody,
Of a grandfather clock,
Chiming at the brink of each timeless hour.
Boredom is mindless whistling.
Boredom is the wining of that fly,
Circumnavigating your head.
Boredom is the crunch of animal crackers.
Boredom is a shroud of drowsiness,
Stalking you from behind,
And the deep, satisfying yawns.
Boredom is the scrunching
Of the Sunday newspaper,
Boredom is the smell of old books,
Boredom is the creaking,
Of an antique rocking chair.
Boredom is dangling back and forth,
on a swing
like the predictable path of a pendulum.
Boredom is the patience of a coffee machine.
Boredom is the rhythmic murmur,
Of the laundry machine.
Boredom is low tide,
The perpetual sound of silver needles
Splattering against the glass,
As you stare out the window,
With an apathetic focus,
And the lethargic clouds,
Light like low fat butter
Boredom is a back-seat car ride,
Boredom is the idle, sticky air,
That clings to you like plastic wrap.
Boredom is a viscous fog,
Soaking up the day.
Boredom is filling a sieve with sand,
Boredom is the reluctant ticking of the clock,
Each tick hesitating longer than the one before.
Tick by tick,
Grit by grit,
Each grit of time,
Crawling down one’s throat.

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