Project Title

Imprimatur: A Poetry Reading

Presenters

Academic department under which the project should be listed

RCHSS - English

Faculty Sponsor Name

Dr. Ralph Wilson and Professor JoAnn LoVerde-Dropp

Additional Faculty

Professor Tony Grooms, English, tgrooms@kennesaw.edu Dr. Ralph Wilson, English, rtwilson@kennesaw.edu Professor JoAnn LoVerde-Dropp, English, jloverde@kennesaw.edu

N/A

Abstract (300 words maximum)

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?

Project Type

Oral Presentation (15-min time slots)

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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?