Latitude

These walls are supposed to be white.
Pure as the flickering of mountains.
Now they only smell of aerosol and can only
Recount of coffee-stained evenings.

Charcoal wavelengths are smearing
These mirrors, my dear. And that picture too.
The door is two million miles away
And can only be opened from outside.

I will wait for the blank signal before signing off.

But first let me stack these books in rows of two.
Let me throw these vases and replace them
With arrows, great silver contraptions ready
To plunge on the cue of brooms. Mothballs

Have no need of cockroaches anymore.
Not this time. Let me grab these curtains
And scare them away in tidal motion.
I promise to make them quiver. Later.

I shall scrub these walls down one day.