The Room I Work In

The room I work in is as foursquare

as half a pair of dice.

It holds a wooden table

with a stubborn peasant’s profile,

a sluggish armchair, and a teapot’s

pouting Hapsburg’s lip.

From the window I see a few skinny trees,

wispy clouds, and toddles,

always happy and loud.

Sometimes a windshield glints in the distance

or, higher up, an airplane’s silver husk.

Clearly others aren’t wasting time

while I work, seeking adventures

on earth or in the air.

The room I work in is a camera obscura.

And what is my work -

waiting motionless.

flipping pages, patient meditation,

passivities not pleasing

to that judge with the greedy gaze.

I write as slowly as if I’ll live two hundred years.

I seek images that don’t exist,

and if they do they’re crumpled and concealed

like summer clothes in winter,

when frost stings the mouth.

I dream of perfect concentration; if I found it

I’d surely stop breathing.

maybe it’s good I get so little done.

But after all, I hear the first snow hissing,

the frail melody of daylight,

and the city’s gloomy rumble.

I drink from a small spring,

my thirst exceeds the ocean.