BACK
The Smoke ROOM
l
r.c. pirosch
Upstairs there's a record player,
a chaos of broken cups
and plates and other finery,
and three windows that look out sullenly
from under the dripping gutter
holdling tree seeds sprouting hopelessly.
Years and years of dirt
are ground into the carpet,
and with it ash from tipped
trays, not quite invisible stains
from tipped coffee mugs,
and a scattered cat fur coat.
We don't clean that room; no,
we let it breed. Out come white
lions and blue bears, small birds
with mottled hair, mangy angry
dinosaurs that defy their times,
fields of folded flowers wrapped in silk,
armies of bones moving numbly;
no, we don't clean that room,
We let it breed.
(c) 2007 by R.C. Pirosch