The Room with a Mind of Its Own

Deidra Alexander just posted an amusing picture of a window located in an odd position. I was immediately reminded of a room I rented for a couple years after my undergraduate days — it was in the attic with plenty of windows, none of which were blocked by bricks.

Long cold nights, long hot days
Beer from a brown cube.
The Sunday imitiation of cheese
From a cold fire of round metal.

Best friend only to its owners runs in the back yard
Around illicit young desire.
The dented horse on the road in front
Draws criminal interest but offers no gain.

Words slush out with little hope
An itch is scratched tentatively.
No progress made, the nobly failed goal
Of the unappreciated intellect.

Friends of truth and light
Raise hands in salvation’s joy.
Letters, calls from fellow occupants of white-washed buildings
Spiced with bemused curiosity.

Rested and restless
The mind submits to another exam, one more application.
Leading out of the room, no less certain of the future
But no longer the watchful prisoner.

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