There's a Room I'm About to Leave
There gapes open a room, splayed with wretched secrets. It's contents - people groping over chairs and sofas, kick their secrets under the couch, under the rug, under anything that can possibly be tossed to the side. Precious vases and art plunge to the floor as they kick over armstands and tables, wrenching paintings off the wall to find safes for their secrets. The smoke thinkens and furles, choking the air, and we don't know where the smoke comes from.
He looks at her and she looks at her and she looks at him. If you could dive into her eyes or his eyes you would drown. There is no safety net or life-boat, only charybdis, no scylla option, just charybdis with teeth. Cold. If you reach the ocean bottom, you'll find a trap-door that opens and breathes you down, even deeper, only to find another trapdoor. There is no handle on the door for the way out. It only opens.
And the room burns with nicotine and smoldering memories, rekindled by a stare or an utterance. Someone spills their beer. This room has filled to the brim because people drag their carry-on carts through the door, vomiting contents all over the carpet and linoleum.
Every few days I enter this room, scraping my carry-on bag inside, my eyes fuming about where I'm going to hide my secrets, and my mouth kindling cigarette droppings. I know these people kicking their secrets underneath the rug, and several stick out, protruding forward with little tag lines like previews to a hollywood movie you've seen so many times before.
I think I'll leave this room for a while, and come back when some-one has picked up the secrets from the floor, plucked them from the safes, vacuumed and tidied them from the cabinets and crannies, and for once in along while, the baggage is lighter and I only need to bring a toothbrush.
He looks at her and she looks at her and she looks at him. If you could dive into her eyes or his eyes you would drown. There is no safety net or life-boat, only charybdis, no scylla option, just charybdis with teeth. Cold. If you reach the ocean bottom, you'll find a trap-door that opens and breathes you down, even deeper, only to find another trapdoor. There is no handle on the door for the way out. It only opens.
And the room burns with nicotine and smoldering memories, rekindled by a stare or an utterance. Someone spills their beer. This room has filled to the brim because people drag their carry-on carts through the door, vomiting contents all over the carpet and linoleum.
Every few days I enter this room, scraping my carry-on bag inside, my eyes fuming about where I'm going to hide my secrets, and my mouth kindling cigarette droppings. I know these people kicking their secrets underneath the rug, and several stick out, protruding forward with little tag lines like previews to a hollywood movie you've seen so many times before.
I think I'll leave this room for a while, and come back when some-one has picked up the secrets from the floor, plucked them from the safes, vacuumed and tidied them from the cabinets and crannies, and for once in along while, the baggage is lighter and I only need to bring a toothbrush.