He shows me a room with walls
And no windows, and says,
"This is freedom." And I sit back
And say, "Sure." The place reeks, though,
So I clamp a hand across my nose,
And I'm crouched like that
Until he goes.
In the evening, he takes my hand
And presses it against his chest.
"This is love." And I lean back
And nod. I like that, even up against
The wall and with my nose uncovered.
Finally, he opens this book,
And I see words, tumbling across the room and unto his chest.
"This", he says, "is poetry."
And I like that best of all.