Charles Springer

I run into this empty room at an open house.
The room is looking for a new house
but every one it comes to is full. The first house says,
try another house. Another house says, not
next to my new den you don’t. Still another
insists the room bring its own purpose. So
the room is back on the street. Neighbors
look in the room’s window. One of them opens it
because she never lit up a room before. Last Tuesday
a professional paid a house call to listen
to the room’s roominess. A locksmith undid its deadbolt.
Meanwhile the room risks its foundation from setting
on too damp ground. And its north wall weakens
from wind. Thanks to a thief, an abandoned van
finds itself in the room’s shadow. If only I had axles
and could sprout tires, thinks the room, I would not
need a house. I could be my own house wherever I want.
I might even roll myself into the path of a tornado
and discover some prairieless states,
rely on the eye of a hurricane to see me
home. Just then, a knock on the room’s door
from a lady in a yellow jacket whose every other
word sounds like location. I found you the
house, the room is able to make out, but you’ll have to
attach as its porch. I’ll be a garage first,
the room insists. Maybe the owners will fill me
with treasures, you know, the ones they tell
the rest of the house they have no room for.