I am a room:
of hustling crowds and speaking noise and virus shards ~
I am giddy. So many people! Too many people?
Can it last? Does it make sense? It’s fun, who cares!
Oh, the things my walls can hear. You’d blush!
I am loud.
I am a room:
an atmosphere of shuffling dust and whirling motes,
of half-lit space and partly shuttered windows
where people used to come. Traces linger – DNA – somewhere…
my memory is hazy – they have faded – it has gone…
I am quiet.
I was a room:
now I am open to the changing sky
with joists broken, windows cracked, walls exposed to frost;
my plaster aches, my flooring reeks, things crawl on many legs…
Vermin eat the crawling things.
I am cold.
I may become a room:
I am a plan, an artwork and a virtual 360 tour.
I submit, although I may not be approved,
that equity demands a measure of equality
for the temporally unrealised.
I am perfect.
I could be a room:
a labour ward, a tax office, a mortuary;
I could be numbered 101 or called a pleasure dome
or manifest a quantum state, be home to Schrödinger’s cat;
I could appear, or disappear; or still exist unseen.
I will reflect what you would see.