This is the perfect state of mind to do exactly what I in tend to do

in this chair, in side of my room, in side of this house

that was built a long this street, my desk sits parallel.

I can see out of my window, the house a cross the street-

three- four- five- seven- does n’t have any people.

At least not right now, but that will change- like this one once did

when our things came here.

Particles float in the air like; my room mates cat ’s hair

until it sticks to every one and all things, eternal.

It collects in all places; even on the micro wave.

Not to mention, the holes in the back yard, where do they go?

What is she doing? What ’s on her mind?

I have watched her do it, from the glass of the back door.

A fury of dirt, and her white turns to brown.

My desk, in my room, has a crack in the top.

It’s hard to write with out some thing to cover it.

I painted it red because that ’s the color I had.

Before that, it smelled like cigarettes, like it ’s old residence.

Or, the dog pee we found at the base of the hutch.

We can sand it, and stain it, and no one will know.

Only I will, and he will, and he, and he, too.

The shower curtain won ’t slide, and the handle wo n’t latch,

and the drawers get stuck, and the floors are cracked

in that one spot, just on the edge, where I like to stand.

I like the way they break under neath my socks.

I visit them when I leave my room,

with my windows, and my desk that I can ’t write on, so

why is it here?

There ’s a sill, and a shelf, and a lamp, and a rose

in a blue vase - next to the clock that projects to my

ceiling that I watch late at night, or when I wake up too

early; but I doze off just in time for my alarm to remind me

that it is to day, or to morrow, or when ever we are,

for ever in your consult, my ubiquitous god.