Monday’s already on its way.
By Tuesday, my room
will lose its human smell,
and though I’m not Wednesday,
I’ll fill its place,
take off my clothes.
Since I’ll have no height
I’ll rob my room
through the doorgap
(edges—sides—angles),
then minus me and Wednesday
my room will be quintessentially
quadrilateral.
Wouldn’t it be great to hug this room,
just rub my face over the walls?—
that desire seizes me,
embraces me in Wednesday’s stead,
and though I can stand shame,
I count not knowing
how high it will rise,
waiting for something like Monday . . .
But someone out there loved
this room before I did.
Someone tall.
Before it had a nick or scratch,
unafraid of Wednesdays or gravity.
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