This room

I’d like to walk into rooms

and read poetry to people.

Not to have them wonder about me

or think I’m something I’m not.

But to have them feel something

                other than the despair of the moment

                other than the frustration of having to answer the question before them.

It fills me up.

Like a weak battery recharging

like the first       deep      breathing            on a Spring walk through the yard

like a quenching drink.

It satisfies

and makes me feel whole again;

like I’m a part of something.

Something bigger than me

something I just shared with someone else

somewhere

who sat in a room

close to a window

writing the words the wind brought in.

This room could use that same breeze.