I worried I’d be wasted, for this dream
recurred so often of an unused room.
Reminded nightly to it, I’d redeem
it from the day’s oblivion, resume
a planned inhabitance, investigate
its windowless perimeter, and then –
I’d wake to tasks already running late,
and dash into forgetfulness again.

I used to think that solitude’s a waste
of personality. I thought I must
bestow myself. I married twice. I chased
a sprite of Iris to a pot of rust,
and found beyond the rainbow room for me
to like my own peculiarity.

This entry was posted in Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )


Connecting to %s