room of ones own

sitting in the corner chair
staring at a room of white
and blue paintings that I’ve made
there are plenty of green plants
to contrast
I miss New York and the cold
I would have been feeling
I miss the stovetop that I had to light
with a lighter
there was a smell of
several seasons
of decay and bloom
the cycle
that just isn’t present
in this place
in this chair in the corner
of my room

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Things found in poems:

Waves.
Pants left in a Holiday Inn, a heartbreak
The woman across from me picking hairs off her sweater.
A rusty nail.
Blades of grass in the sentimental seasons.
Setting sun.
Dark blue glass bottles.
Black birds.
Crossed out lines.
Black pen ink.
Coffee mug stains.
Pressed daisies.
Sea salt.
Honey.

A reading

Poets speak of nature
all that is wild and free
through a screen of images
the poet voice is prominent
broken only by the
silent pauses
and in between
truths
the poet wears a scarlett
Scarf
the poet is to be taken
seriously