The Room in the House

He asked me to write a poem with my eyes closed
No focus on function or style
Just searching for the keys with my eyes closed
Searching for some sort of salvation that will not come

There’s a room in a house
Where the light’s always on
You can see it through
The crack at the bottom of the door
And an old wind-up victrola that keeps playing
Even though there’s no one to wind it
And it plays the bossa nova
But no one’s dancing

He told me to write a story with my eyes closed
That way I’d see it all take shape in my head
How the imagination can work its way
Even under black and red

But now I’m seeing blue
And I’m wondering if you
Would care if I connected colors
To moods
Orange for glad
Pink for mad
Brown for dirty
Green for sickness
and health

Do you see the trees?
They blossom in the winter
They blossom all year long

Out there it’s beautiful
With the flowered trees
And ripe, poisonous cherries

But in the room in the house
Where the music plays
During daytime the overhead light
Beats down on me
As if it were the only thing
Living
And there’s no switch here
So I crawl
Into the room with no windows
And see the story ---
once in black and red ---
Now just black