I got a river standing
still in my head.
A half a world greets
me through wet curtains.
Gray walls are my thoughts
without color.
An old wooden floor talks back
to my shoes.
A ceiling fan, its life long over,
brushes at cobwebs
in corners.
Newspapers yellow
without the sun.
Dust is the snow of abandoned
places.
Overshadows of morning
clouds dampen the day.
The stream of traffic
pulls me into another
flow of day.
Roger Singer 