The Room

© Steve King

All Rights Reserved

This room cannot speak to me of emptiness,

for nothing in its corners and high shadow

yields a thought of anything—

save corners, shadows.

Were I to think of emptiness,

I would picture other,

knowing in my heart

an absent habitation

that did once belong.

But nothing of a room,

where emptiness is just a word,

a proxy to formalize the nature of a place

and the inviolability of moment;

a simple means to keep

the perfect balance of a waiting space, quiet—

faint intimation of contingent purposes

foreshadowing the outline

of some unthought future,

all so free and new.

Were I to think of emptiness

I would not need this room.

I would summon aged moods,

emotion without substance,

(indeed, were I to think on it at all)

ineradicable remembrance,

unrevoked regret;

the chiming of old laughters,

and once-bright mornings come

to upend each passing misery.

Were I to think on emptiness

I would know a heart alone,

hollow moments filled

with unanswered questions,

of how the times might be

if not for absence,

that sure emptiness now—

so filled with all perfected memories

that only ancient absence may allow.

A new poem for the Poetry Pantry

Poets United