A Piece about Space

A physical space, four walls, some windows
Mine. My own. It was up there, on the last floor
overlooking Inwood park. A studio, enough room
for a bed (that converted to a sofa), a red desk with
its red chair (facing out the largest window), four book
shelves and two media shelves heaped high,
spilling over with music and books.

Today, on this day, my space is down there, beneath the earth,
a basement room without windows. It is dark, very dark and I lose
track of time. It encases the same desk and the same bed, that's all
it can manage. My footrest is a stool where my fat black cat sleeps.
My desk is heaped high with books, files, papers and a laptop, hidden
beneath precarious piles. It's mine, my very own but I have to creep
around late at night so as not to wake up the folks. It’s a tight fit as
the whole house rests over my head.

A notebook and a pen is all that's needed. The room,
the physical space is a luxury. Time is a luxury.
Steal moments, and hours, and seconds, and minutes
between classes, between jobs, between sleep
to gather up nomad phrases that ruminate
and hum in the background. Pick, pick, pick the fruit
of the tree. Take nibbling bites, gaping bites, hoping to encase
the phrase before it drops away, back into the landscape.


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