The Blank Room

Wood, plaster, apertures, glass. A box

on its own bored with its own makings

as angular, bleak, decomposing

as a piece of machinery left outdoors.

Through the panes-soiled and extremely there!

the daylight surprises the mistakes

the workmen made, the architect made.

Alone, the room mourns its character.

More: pocks, stains, smudges, scars. The walls face

one another's faults and few fixtures.

Sockets, the switch obtrude. Obstinate,

the way a crossed eye is remembered.

Floor has forgotten feet. Corners show

tacks, threads, crumbs, wads of stuff, small parts left

behind, unidentifiable.

Each board broods on cleanliness, on noise.

But cheer. A woman's eye comes asking,

"What can I do for this?" "Much," smiles down

the ceiling. Her mind fills with notions.

The box wakes like a bush, with tight buds.