I lie in my bed these days
and play pretend
that these four walls,
make up the only room
left in the world.
That soft glow of the hall lamp
creeping underneath my door
is the reflection of golden sunlight
off pale sand,
and the sound of the stop-start trams
are crashing waves upon my shore.
I pace my floor
imagining this worn, patterned carpet
sits atop the highest peak in the Alps,
and were I to peer through the keyhole
I’d be blinded by brilliant white snow,
and winded by the view.
A gust rushes past the weatherboards
through the depth of the night
and I imagine my room to have sunk to
the bottom of an ocean
swaying side to side
through the water
like some long lost
vessel of treasure.
I draw my blinds
to wait for sharks,
or giant blue whales
to glide past my window
but only sparrows come to nest,
with the occasional seagull
teasing me that I had come any closer
to the brine.
I peer through the dust in the keyhole
and with trepidation, open the door
to a still hallway, as level as the Maldives,
while being blinded by the brilliant gloom of
its beige carpet.
And then I leave my house,
racing up the street, as steady and
unchanging as it’s always been
to catch another tram, and be swept
along in the current
towards the city.