I slump into an armchair
Feet drooping down
And sprawl onto the carpet
Watch the dust float around
I have no place to go
Nothing to do
No faces to see
Nothing is new
Boredom is as human does
Sun wearily crosses the sky above
I'm stuck with a fly and a ticking clock
Too leaden to move, much less to walk
And even the aforementioned dust
Has more to do than I.