Blinds

There are marks you leave underneath the shag carpet

Must have been the accent chair screaming all 

across the floor when you dragged it a few nights ago

the stools stood in silence by the bar, Starck, pretending to be 

transparent.

There is so little tufting on the gray sofa, not enough

to hide the wrinkled upholstery and the matching pot-bellied throw pillows,  

just slouch against each other in sloppy abandonment.

The consul table gapes its legs like a mouth, a frozen scream 

or a motionless yawn, or a mocking gag

But I'm sure if the white-washed wallpapers could talk, they would

be saying the same thing, or screaming the same warning

The few white porcelain bowls have gargled enough duck rice

and the bathroom tiles have tasted enough sweat and salt to fill the sea

with things to float, near docks and public shorelines

Because there are certain things it cannot stomach

Silk curtains whisper between panels of windows

because obviously the screens can just filter insects and dusts

but not truth or the prying eyes of gossiping bystanders.

Everybody knows even the blinds cannot block light completely.

So stop pretending that its night time.

10:17 PM 

June 13, 2013