Room in Brooklyn
High above the world, where the street sounds can’t
hardly reach, her window with its lopsided shades
looks over the rooftops where the clustered chimneys gaze
back at the woman who sits so cozy
in her wooden chair, now looking at her book
now out at the ranks of windows, the red brick walls,
and the blue wash of the sky where pigeons
wing their way homeward. The warm sun spills into
her lap and lays itself down at her feet
like a contented cat upon the green floor.
In the corner of the window a white vase
of flowers poised on a blue cloth on a
three legged table catches the sun beams
and weighs them against its curves and finds them
wanting. The room is cool, blue shadows
stretching across melancholy space.
There is nowhere else she’d rather be.