The Poet's Room

Between the Spanish towers
Of the pale armoire
A tear is turned to verse.
As the salty fog passes
The small everything,
Comes into sight.

A light blue chair
Sits in the cracked corner
Who does he want sat on him?
Would he accept anyone else?

The yellow walls
Are made even yellower
By the naked lights
Spreading waves of shadows
That in the night become
Cherished images looking away.

The divorced double bed,
White widows of green silence,
Seperate the now from never.
Their wrinkles are a labyrinth
In which memories are lost.

A local television, speaks
With foreign spittle
Like men without a country.
It fills the room
And makes it into a home,
With sounds and jokes
Breaking through
From the other side of yesterday.

Behind the lumbering door
At the top of the narrow,
Entry corridor, shelter
Pythagorean noises.
They only reveal their identities
If sought out
By confident Conquistadors.
Go!

Now the room prepares
To sleep. A cemetery:
Haunted by love and questions.