a picture of my room

the one that's my own.
the one that means i do what i want in it.

thirties art deco desk. forties
telephone table, both scarred
with water mark and teen angst.
white wicker yellow from nicotine

(i just wanted to say that i would not
have gone thru all that with you
if i didn't think somehow we would work it out.)



old safety deposit box stuffed with divorce
papers, mortgage agreement, a picture
of my daughter as a baby. several journals
half filled and spilled open to confession.
player piano, just one
cigarette butt. two computer speakers
lying on their sides. empty bag
of lays, one crushed under my feet. a pen.
a spilled drawer. a resin wicker table
covered in a black cloth printed with gold
stars and moon and sun
pouring thru the fine afternoon, diffused
thru depression inspired songs, played live
in remembrance of the way i love.

chestnut stained dresser from the 17th century
and its scrollwork, a mirror
melting across its mercury

unzipped black computer bag
black velvet pot pouch atop it.
bed rescued from the dumpster. feather
comforter with escapees dotting the berber.
across the desk, things need organization
in the bathroom, the toilet runs now, needs
a new flap. laundry as recurring nightmare.
on every surface, collections of boxes, baskets
strawberry flavored makeup. empty rx containers,
upsidedown sandals. cell phone charger cell
phone at the edge of a very big cliff.
things on the wall, but 'm not looking up.

taco bell 32 oz drink cup filled with stale
fruit punch waiting to stain. and dust,
lots of dust.