The Room

i take you to the room, or rather,

i take you by the hand to the red door.

i open the door and gesture you forward.

i say “this is the room”.

i don't show you around.

i don't say “this is the chair, that is the table”.

my poem is in the space

between the page and the reader.

am i the reader in the empty space

that exists, or not, between you and me?

i read with inaccuracies of humanity.

i exist, or not, in sins and errors of humanity.

back when i was still green,

i didn’t show you the map pinned to the wall.

or the unlit lamp in the corner

next to the nearly dead houseplant.

as you explore that space between

the poem and your brain,

you notice the black bird on the branch

just beyond the yellow curtain that doesn’t exist.

 

though i failed to mention it, your nose and your mind locate steaming coffeepot, lipstick-stained cup.

without assistance, as you find your way back

to the hall through the green side of the red door,

you come to realize;

the vacuum of space is nearer than you thought.

questioning your own sanity, your sanctity, your piety,

you notice for the first time,

the reader is no longer here.

perhaps they never were.

there is only you

and the poem.

© 2025 Bruno Talerico

Stafford challenge day twelve..