No Time to Spare

It's too late
She thought, she said
That poem's been done
He thought, he said

Why must it be?
That way he thought
Not expecting
Any answer at all

Is it ever really
Too late, or is that
Just a cheap excuse
For laziness, again

The world stood silent
As it has almost always done
Being night, the birds slept
But the TV was on

So mundane
So unprofound
And where is the art?
Something asked aloud

Collected clichés replied
What about love?
Mostly sadly it hid
Muttering not a sound