The Farnsworth Room

I. In this august room I can see ugly, light-brown shelves with books inset like miscut gems. I can see the surrounding flat, white wall that looks like the painters used primer. These chairs are pretty though, with crimson leather and gold-capped rivets, but they too are cheap and creak every time I move (age and cheap nails). From that side you can see a church with pretty browns and reds but I chose a seat farther removed from the oak-framed window perfectly split in two, or, three, panes, maybe when you really look at it but I don’t. I’m in the corner with Katherine Hepburn– I don’t know anything about Katherine Hepburn. Maybe I should read that overstuffed book. This overstuffed room is quiet and ill: all these visible things and the only sounds I get are the humming lights and some child leafing through the Globe. The lights are dull and only half of them are on. My squeaky chair and the ugly walls and the ugly bookshelves are too much so I leave. II. A different seat this time and I’m in a better mood: I’m sure the painters used real paint. There’s no one here so I squeak my chair for a minute, and then, realizing I only came here to write this poem I leave again. III. I just stopped in today to say “hi” to Katherine. I was thinking about her last night. IV. Today I didn’t want to go in, so I just sat in my room and thought about that room; time is scary. Like looking at ruins in a book or on summer vacation and it doesn't seem quite right that each place has two selves and two times and each is connected.