This room is not my room.
Its warm oak and woven wicker chairs,
It's tall armoirs and curvacious vases,
It's jaundiced lampshades and dying palms.
This room is not my room.
It's pictureless frames and fragile chandelier,
It's heavy mirrors, full of slate and reflection,
Its sighing slats of polished pine.
This room is not my room.
The nakedness of its bed and bathroom,
The salt and sugar of its sunlit kitchen,
The breeze balanced on its balcony.
This room is not my room,
But it will be
As I pull on the owner's legs like slacks,
Don his back like a shawl,
Slip into the socks of his feet, the gloves of his hands.
It will be as I glue his hair to my scalp,
Wear his face like sweat.
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7 comments:
On review, it's possible that I'm a murderer. Sorry about that.
it puts the lotion on its skin
Talented Mr. Phillips?
ha! i'm a new fan of tb.
Need some new Glenn. Please.
Hey Glenn...It was great seeing you and Taylor while we were in Paris. You truly are a gifted teacher...your tour was fun and you are awesome at relaying the info. : ) Tell Taylor we give him props for working so hard in the pouring rain, as well as fixing and carrying all of those bikes. Thanks for the gelato recommendation too! We had some on Ile St. Louis.
On a side note...I am still curious (if you ever find out) that if you are born/die in Paris does that mean your family can be buried with you there, or do they have to be born/die there as well? ; )
Thanks again! It was great seeing you.
Glenn?
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