alone you find
a place
a newly painted room
off-white
without an odor
or scent
the curtain is old
orange
with suspicious dust
and recalcitrant
roaches,
the music is the sound
of the air-conditioner
which is not that
cold
to make you alive,
but here you are
writing another
poem
searching for meaning,
and sometimes the meaning
you find
is the meaninglessness
of every item:
a blunt stapler
a stain remover
a pencil without a head
an ear cleaner
a sunless world
a moonless nook
somehow you want a connection
whatever that be
to survive another hour.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem