Common Quarters

For Son of Slam 3... Our home is without rooms.

In our home without rooms,
a sun-softened candle’s waxy,
lazy melt
becomes both metaphor and marvel,
blending art with emptiness.

Picasso runs blurry all over the place.
A self-painted prophet’s
pouncing purr
echoes the un-walled everything,
blending absurdity with meaning.

Our window nook is now playing films:
a skyscraper peephole’s blinking
Cyclops eye
casts crooked glances indiscriminate,
blending metropolis with legend.

In our home without rooms,
a night-gentled whisper’s yielding,
tender release
becomes both sentinel and host,
blending welcome with goodbye.