Imprimatur: A Poetry Reading

Presenters

    Primary Investigator (PI) Name

    Dr. Ralph Wilson and Professor JoAnn LoVerde-Dropp

    Department

    RCHSS - English

    Abstract

    The Spare Bedroom

    What does it feel like behind that door

    at the end of the hall, in that nosebleed

    section of the house? No matter how small,

    we fill our extra corners with fake ferns

    and peace lilies, a lonely aloe vera plant.

    We say we need an extra room

    to keep the next guest in a plush bed

    of shiny sheets and sham comforters,

    with two formica tables, and a wall clock

    permanently saving time.

    Here is the door we pass by and peek in,

    toss old furniture, lightbulbs, and pens,

    the door for future guests to pass through

    to the afterlife, waiting for memories

    to live and die over the weekend.

    Inside, that one window looks nowhere,

    draped lightly like a mosquito net,

    a corner view obscure, a fortress secure,

    a mausoleum for one dead fly in the sill,

    lifeless, except dust mites bathing in sunlight.

    Sheltered out of the elements,

    captive like mice in the wall, we tiptoe,

    listen for the thinness. Light creeps in,

    touching the feet of passersby as if to ask,

    who will stay and when?

    Disciplines

    Poetry

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    Imprimatur: A Poetry Reading

    The Spare Bedroom

    What does it feel like behind that door

    at the end of the hall, in that nosebleed

    section of the house? No matter how small,

    we fill our extra corners with fake ferns

    and peace lilies, a lonely aloe vera plant.

    We say we need an extra room

    to keep the next guest in a plush bed

    of shiny sheets and sham comforters,

    with two formica tables, and a wall clock

    permanently saving time.

    Here is the door we pass by and peek in,

    toss old furniture, lightbulbs, and pens,

    the door for future guests to pass through

    to the afterlife, waiting for memories

    to live and die over the weekend.

    Inside, that one window looks nowhere,

    draped lightly like a mosquito net,

    a corner view obscure, a fortress secure,

    a mausoleum for one dead fly in the sill,

    lifeless, except dust mites bathing in sunlight.

    Sheltered out of the elements,

    captive like mice in the wall, we tiptoe,

    listen for the thinness. Light creeps in,

    touching the feet of passersby as if to ask,

    who will stay and when?