Flushing, New York

The quick scent of November
brought back the memory of you.

I am small, the foyer is bare
and smells of oak and polish
and the faint remains of pine cleaner.
The glass in the door,
bright, sharp, and as much as it is,
reflects the afternoon light
through prism eyes.
If I stand still, I can hear
the traffic, the water running in the kitchen,
and the absolute quietness
of this small room with doors
into two worlds.



Copyright 1982-2003 by Peter A. Stinson.
All rights reserved.
Reproduced by Poetry 360 with permission of the author.