Rooms
My apartment has a secret room
filled with gardenias, scent of a wilder world.
The paint is green, cracking and peeling.
Rain taps slowly on the air conditioner
What would my family say?
Gardenias and wicker furniture?
You’re not that sort, they’d say.
It’s a room I saw in a dream
and it’s on the second floor of a house.
It’s my bedroom, where I sleep
when I’m not here: an alternate life.
The desk and sofa are solid. No plants.
Just an overstuffed chair and a coffee table.
But, behind the door, there is always that room.