Small house Poem by Mark Boog

Small house, but throw a ball through it some time
and it becomes quite large. See all those metres,
aren't they ours? And stroll perhaps as if
you don't know where you're going: space is
stretching out and yawns between the walls. Behold:
the wandering that binds the rooms together
has been painted white. There are some stairs,
a hat stand in the cupboard, doors. As if
by accident it lies there like a country
lane, where roads determine goal and starting
point and not the other way around. If you
go out for bread and then return you'll see
that we can organise a picnic. Quick!
Go now! The shrinking can't be far away.

Translation: 2004, Willem Groenewegen