from This is the Room

This is the room my relatives would not
Be caught in, the window view reversed in lint,
Interior as dim as a closed fridge, soft but unlit,

A fireplace that sits its time cold, centered, out,
A soldier with a palm flat on a mare’s turned snout,

A tea set unstrummed, its glare in slant & strut
Against candelabrums, the piano chair slightly right
In return, lost songs cupped in the mirror’s gut.

TFD is co-editor and publisher of Tammy. A recent chapbook, Dog the Man a Star, can be found online at Scantily Clad Press. Additional work appears in Denver Quarterly, American Letters & Commentary, Action Yes, Octopus, Eleven Eleven, and others. He appears in NY, Chicago, CA, or in MN.

“We have these wicker rocking chairs that are always moving on the porch, so when we sit on them things become stilled and it becomes easier to read. 

“One porch in northern Minnesota was at the perfect height to get a view of the tiny lake only canoes were allowed on; Faulkner worked well here. 

“In undergrad I lived in a house called the Lit House and our porch faced the main road in which every car that approached the long haul up the little hill to the small private campus became relevant. We gathered there for what we called Porch Thought, which became the title of my first chapbook.”