The Corner

A wood door with an old-fashioned iron handle,
The kind you press the release with your thumb,
Is open.
Someone took the flowered carpet up
Exposing unblemished wood floors.
There is a window, twelve panes, but
It doesn't invite you to look out.
Cloudy white light barely spreads the wood floors.
It is in this empty corner, by the window I stand.

Someones brings me a green chair, it matches my shoes.
It is the only color in the room.
I place it by the murky window and pretend to look out.
Silent with my memories, they can't get me to talk.
So they leave, closing the door and I am left with my thoughts
As I try to look out the window,
I sit in the chair, in the corner of the room.

Copyright Denise A White