The Blue Bathroom

The breast was pulled from my mouth
just as the sour turned to sweet.
The writing desk watches me
as I fall down the stairs.
My own life is in the chair, the pants,
the jacket, the keyhole--
it terrifies me!
The living room is a rainforest or a desert;
I get lost in the carpet's trails.
Such joy from Dad's pretzel stick
dipped in mustard;
from banging the keys on his typewriter.
The sun shines on me but then
the moon disapproves
and I hide in the closet--
Nobody comes looking for me.

David W. Aronson
July, 1999