We live in a world of walls, comprising all sorts of rooms – most man-made – some concrete, others imaginary – ultimately though, we do not get to choose that last room, do we?
DVerse invites poets to wander around in words to a theme – and this week it is: ROOM.
There is a wall.
There is a wall. There.
And another. There. And still two more. There.
They have color. They are a deep red.
They have had other colors before –
and they will again.
These walls are not smooth.
Run your hands over them. There.
You see the rivulets,
but can you feel them now?
They are drywall tears. Valleys of them.
Pitted cobbles of confessed hurts.
Raised plateaus of less-than-fulfilled wishes.
Feel them. Feel all of them.
Feel all these walls.
The masons call it knockdown.
This year I’ll obscure it in sand swirl.
In honor of her leaving.
In honor of the kids having grown, and gone.
In honor of every god-forsaken room in the world.
Rooms that house babies,
pink and soft and frilly,
and funereal rooms, dank and dark,
housing mephitic casualties,
miscasts, and those relegated to end roles.
My room is an office.
I file things against the walls.
When I was young, my walls were roomy and uncluttered.
They sprawled across the world, meeting back-to-back, corner-to-corner.
Only slowly did they close in – on me.
Now they have closed too quickly.
And soon, they will be brown, and splintery,
smelling like pine;
and the floor and the ceiling will close down with them,
until the room is only an office space for my lying body,
and I will be filed against them,
and I wonder, then, if walls will even matter.