THE POETS ROOM

has nothing in it.
No comfortable furniture,
no TVs, voices,
clocks ticking, nothing
except beats of air and blood
pulsing through your lungs.

You take a clean breath
and quietness comes in.

Your favorite films start flaring
on theatres of walls, whenever
you are brave enough
to chase your images
with words.

In a future with few blank walls,
libraries are hushed museums,
where crowds devour your books.
Others enter,
startled, tremulous.

Back to the Poets Room.
The bare room,
friendly in a dismal
daring way.

Here you can eat rocks,
jump precipices
and always recover, provided
you have pen and paper
to catch you.


- Judith Pordon