boredom sits in the louvre and folds

​

her hands gently, right over left.

​

she should’ve left before da vinci started but

​

too late came far too soon. patience 

​

is a tricky thing but sometimes if you aim the mirror

​

at the light just right you might catch a glimpse of it

​

in the slant of your eye. boredom, now, is that chipped

​

bullet stuck in your pupil, blocking the world from your

​

inside

​

             infection