A Pseudonym's Room Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

"The Pseudonym's Room"


There is a room
where names are left at the door,
stacked like coats
on a winter hook.

Inside, the air carries
a faint shimmer of work undone -
pages half-turned,
ink settling into its own shapes.

A chair waits
for whoever enters next,
unconcerned with signatures
or the weight of a lineage.

Here, the walls listen
without judgement,
holding the soft friction
between what is written
and what wishes to be.

And when you step out again,
you take nothing with you
but the sense
that something in the room
shifted slightly
to make space.





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