Mark Podesta - In the Middle of the Room

In the Middle of the Room

 

Mark Podesta

 

The walls sometimes look white and they sometimes look blue.  The doorframe is the same color gray as the door. There are heaping piles of clutter that litter the floors, the surfaces, the chairs, and the extra bed.  No one sleeps in the extra bed anymore. Sometimes I think I would like to pretend there is. Sometimes I don’t.  The fans radiate a lull that deafens the room. There isn’t any room for anyone at the desk. The many pairs of different shoes are separated on the floor.  Books that were read, were supposed to be read, and still want to be read take up space on the windowsill. There’s a backpack filled with clothes from spending the weekend somewhere far away.  The backpack won’t be unpacked for quite some time. 

 

In the midst of all these dead ends and bland quarters and nauseatingly superfluous purchases, there is a boy.  He’s huddled on the ground with his knees curled into his stomach.  He’s prenatal, wet and shivering.

 

He’s whispering the song of the unheard.