they eat with pieces
of themselves scattered on the floor
with the roses
the empty kitchen
serves only thought and fear, little taste
how many others have asked,
is this a bed
or a boxing ring
(they must ask the person in the mirror,
then they can rest)
the warmth of the blood-red walls
enrages
the passion from the uneasy chair
surrounded by the antique
volumes of self-taught knowledge
gathering dust
the sewing machine is purely ornamental
and off on a side track, death
and emptiness
© September 27, 1995 Karen Farrell, all rights reserved
This poem was written as a class assignment in response to an installment at Diverse Works.
