Traveling Windbag

Whole lot a talking going on.

A twelve hour ride for the holiday;
he talks a lot but has little to say.
Outside this train rolling hills now appear,
but inside someone still gnaws on my ear.

I lean back as my lids cover my eyes;
he speaks again--banal words still arise.
I shift my seat so to show him my nape;
chatterbox goes on, there is no escape!

(Provide me silence on this long train ride,
grant intermission, let quiet abide.
Turn on the mute, make the manic tongue cease;
save me from every incessant mouthpiece.)

Talking continues, his life tales endure--
so much I could be his biographer.
Mama did tell me once when I was young,
watch out for those with a spirited tongue.

I grab a magazine to give a hint,
thinking it might halt his talkative stint.
But he continues on motor-mouth stage,
opining on Time no matter what page.

(Give me a break from the gift of great gab;
if I had know I‘d have taken a cab.
Closer I come as he rattles his gums;
humor has left me, still I have my thumbs.)

24 Lines