Like the Thimble in the Sky
The bedroom is deep sky blue
with some clouds. The kitchen
will be something around mustard.
We’re both early risers (he’s making
coffee, though I hear no percolation).
Tonight, this room, swap a few poems,
a window out to the familiar (wrong
direction?), the eucalyptus tree, a
fellow pine [– overwhelms me
as I write it – I realize I have not
been.] He’ll splash fragrantly
in the air....Almost none. Good
and muddled sitting in a foreign
room. Like Texas, a few weeks
later (or behind), in a new –
down South they call them
whirlpools – the moon
rising early. The three of us
a steamy ephemeron. An
Ikea bookshelf fooling around
with a sofa. “Your grandfather,”
I’d say to the one I’m sitting on.
If furniture could speak! Con-
templative with chilly
appendages. Except a warm
index finger curled around a
thumb. Rice in the cooker.
