Art Kills Time

Ink of a concoction
Of olive oil, brick dust,
And rust looks like dried blood

On the lime-plastered walls
Of the lazaretto,
Quarantine graffiti

From centuries ago.
We’re not interested,
Much, in the quarantine

Or the particulars
Of those caught up in it
Here. Here we want to ask—

Why does boredom produce
Such an urge to doodle
Or, if one is at all

Literate, to scribble?
The intense compulsion
To make marks is both far

More ancient than these marks
And of no sure value
To the deeply absorbed.

Why kill boredom this way?
Were the cave painters bored?
Were people always bored?