This Room Poem by John Ashbery

This Room



The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here.

COMMENTS OF THE POEM
joe boehn 08 March 2020

difficult to read the poem because of all the advertising that was going in around it.

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John Ashbery

John Ashbery

Rochester, New York
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