![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh999dQgdDrAJcXBnFfuA3Goftt_e_NQKYCaUZ6UFPqVfYGXjh-7sGKznNEDnlFyIZp80-dmIyd9oJ-2ibsLDzrWJ16V79-MhNMvuoZ9AkCQ6xfnf9yNMfhCWbJTFOfw7DEZOaYiH0Kif0/s400/tired_cat.jpg)
YOUR ROOM
.
Your room would only be complete
with music and a tired cat,
a phone pleading
and no hand to lift it.
From the window, a sidewalk
lined with willows would stretch on.
On the wall, a map of the city
would peek from behind your back.
Under the table,
a pair of battered boots, your size.
You will hear sycamore leaves
breaking like glass.
Your wrists will join like palms,
like the murmur crossing your life.
No comments:
Post a Comment