Where the Chair Goes

I’ve made this little room in a tea tray.

I started with the walls, then I did the floor,

Using coffee stirrers I’d sanded down on my knee.

The wallpaper is printed roses.

I cut the wallpaper out with a scalpel, and I held my breath,

While I glued the paper around the corners.

On the table, there’s a loaf that’ll never get hard.

The clock reads 10:04; I picked that hour,

Because it sounded like no one would be asking anything of anybody,

At that time.

My cat sleeps on the windowsill.

She’s been sleeping in that spot for two years now,

And she hasn’t knocked a single tea cup off of the dresser yet.

In the real house, the milk spoils,

And somebody always takes my reading glasses, usually me.

My friends and family members are getting older,

In other rooms that I can’t reach with my tweezers.

At night, I bring a small lamp and a steady hand to this room,

And I set the chair right back where it was supposed to go.

Nothing has ever gone out of this room.

And I think that’s both why I like it and maybe why it’s a problem.

After I glue the tiny key into the tiny lock, I leave the door slightly open.