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.