My room;
A room full of possibilities,
It faces a giant window with purple curtains
where the sun sets in the shrinking sky,
among the concrete with a dusty sigh,
where pigeons shit low and soar high
and the vehicles screech nearby…

…beyond a collage wall with yellowed art pieces
waiting to be repaired,
offering support to a bed waiting to be cleared;
Filled with bags, different kinds – big and small,
And some clothes and some books and some more stuff
Waiting to be placed in their designated space
inside an overflowing cupboard.

On the other side lies the table
in more or less the same state;
A cup waiting for its taxi to the sink
A sanitizer born in 2020 waiting to be used
A speaker, I am waiting for to get charged
A match box waiting for a hiding place…

…and a sketch waits to be completed
and after her, a few others as well.
And after that a poem awaits creation too,
under them an old CPU fights scrapyard,
while dreaming of a museum,
while my new CPU- my office laptop
dreads being used yet again.

Somewhere in this clutter
lies a few old manuscripts,
waiting to be used, some what abused,
while dreaming of being a part of beautiful book
and a giant teddy lies on the bed
gathering dust and battling an existential crisis.
Like those unfinished drafts.
Like me.

My room could be an office,
Could be a secret lab,
Could be a studio,
Could even be a gym,
But it’s none of that –
It is a waiting room;

A room waiting to be cleaned,
A heart waiting to be fixed,
A dream waiting to be realized,
A love waiting to be loved,
A life waiting to be lived,
A beginning waiting for an end,
And I am waiting
(might as well be a professional waiter now)
waiting for those possibilities
to be possible someday.

But it seems not today.
Or maybe it does,
maybe there’s a little bit,
coming to existence,
Just a little bit
day by day.

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