Within an Eight by Ten Room


dimly lit by diffuse light through window,
this room has become my cloister prison;
a river called internet runs through it
in the air and ever listening like angels
or perhaps demons, but my mind no longer
distinguishes between such mysterious
strangers, beings . . . more interested in
dogs passing by the window, one all but
blind with cataracts (this is mother’s bitch,
papa’s little darling), and another
the neighbor’s two doors down, a fine specimen
of boxer and constantly starved of good
attention.   .   .   .   and the closely distant sound
of mother shooing him is the scourge on my back.

David M Pitchford
3 Dec 2011

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