THE POETS ROOM

has nothing in it.

No comfortable furniture,

no TVs, voices,

clocks ticking, nothing

except beats of air and blood

pulsing through your lungs.

You take a clean breath

and quietness comes in.

Your favorite films start flaring

on theatres of walls, whenever

you are brave enough

to chase your images

with words.

In a future with few blank walls,

libraries are hushed museums,

where crowds devour your books.

Others enter,

startled, tremulous.

Back to the Poets Room.

The bare room,

friendly in a dismal

daring way.

Here you can eat rocks,

jump precipices

and always recover, provided

you have pen and paper

to catch you.