To Move, She Told Us, She Would Plod

It’s what all tongues do
When we’re on our own.
We sit. A lot. Doze.

A lot. But we don’t
Feel bad. Not for us.
But for you we might,

For those who read us
And for those who write.
We do grieve, a bit,

For what might have been,
What could have been said
On just the right lips.