This room is calculated and immaculate;
There is no unplanned magic here.
But the baby powder residue
On your fingers from the walls
Takes you to the edge of that limit
you lost when the quick tick, tick timer
Replaced the slow beating echoes that were
Yours to keep track of the minutes like
hours spent reviewing picture-book clouds.
When the intensity of your eyesight
made it all look like your grandfather’s
black and white photographs except for that
Cerulean
Balloon floating towards you on a lazy gust
then
Pop.
Your fixation with endings
began the day your father’s
arms stopped acting as an airplane
and you thought, perhaps that heaven
they believe of is merely a belief.
This room is the adulthood
you are taking the train away from tonight.
