Friday, August 9, 2013

Of Furnished Rooms & Clouded Doorways

Harsh lights gritty sidewalks, squeaking grating doorways,
Metal glass chrome doors, decals pealing and maybe a bell,
Hard to remember where I left those cut-up dreams.
I let one go the other day, just a crumple and a toss and a "So what now?"
There’s another one around the corner, right?

Dim-lit yellow hallways, bathroom down the hall,
Shredded carpet, bruised and dirty,
Don’t even think about the paint.
A single cot, thin mattress, square table made with wood,
That single bulb hanging on to a cord.
There in the corner, I saw the crumpled might-have-been.
Missed the rusted basket; poor shot.
I walked out with it, of course
I should have left it there along with the rest of the picture.

Instead I spread it out on an ironing board,
Ink worn through and faded, edges broken and frayed,
But maybe it could have been salvaged.

I think I see a painted house, light green, and a stoop.
There’s a bay window, I remember now, pink reflected in the window pane,
Something’s on the window ledge, I think it's a little cat.
And a hose out front. Yes, I see it now,
A hose and a sidewalk, straight to the curb and down to the puddled street.
Not much of a yard, but a sprinkler!
You know, it could have done with a watering can.

I keep it with me now, after paying all that attention.

Anyway you never know.

Brooklyn Botanic Garden, August 2013

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

I like this one, mae