bedroom in florida

over time

i have tuned

my eyes to see

(erroneously, maybe)

a subdued wash of color

seeping through wood

as a loaded metaphor

a symbol of my own


or emotional state..

he was not any different

the brushed alabaster

the wooden bed

the “yellow,

like fresh butter”

the contrived meaning

of his growing


how else could i explain the

pulsating snap

of our spines ?

the impression on

a coat of wet


he is-

he was the bedroom in florida

i hung him in the hallway


i don’t think of him often

but great softness

is haunting

even when shuttered

and discounted.


– sheila c.