The Poem Of Our Lives

I am writing a poem which takes place in one room.

The room looks out to the street.

No one lives there.

The trees have lost their leaves.

I keep writing the words, looking for something.

Something like brilliance or mercy.

The one word that would bring us together.

The one word that keeps us apart.

The book of our lives is empty.

We fill it with words to keep us alive

The tables in the room are filled with objects.

The furniture is never moved.

The rug becomes darker with time.

Our shadows pass over it.

As if one room is our world.

We sit together and do not speak.

Or we speak of things that never change.

In this room I sit with ideas.

The ideas never change.

I am reading the poem of our lives.

As if we're somewhere within it.

As if it was written before it was written.

As if I am the one who's writing it.

As if part of my live was one of the chapters.

As if you are part of the book.

I close the book and look right through you.

As if you were here and I wrote it all.

I write that I move beyond this.

That something beyond this is more than my words.

Each night I write the same poem.

Then I wake the next day and write it again.

I am writing a poem that takes place in one room.

I am writing the poem as if I was a child.

I am writing a poem of doorknobs and dressers.

I am writing the poem with you in it.

I can't see you because you're not there.

I turn the page and begin writing.

I am writing a poem which takes place in one room.

The room looks out to the street.

There is no one there.

The trees have lost their leaves...

     December 30 2021