. . . ever I have felt at home--
in each bedroom, for example,
a slice of time has called my own.
Or else on mountains molded
from molten rock, old
volcanic ash, pumice-stone rains.
Or strolling a beach, wondering
(as the waves weave
their staggered path across
quivering sands): how much
difference there is, really
between this daily
drum-beat of surf and
a tsunami?
Or perhaps in Brooklyn's backyard--
shielded by the shade breeze
that caresses my flesh
on a summer afternoon.
This poem is none of
these places, however.
it is, instead., an unfolded bed--
which is not my bed.
In a room which is not my bedroom--
or hers, even, since the only
bedroom in this apartment
is occupied by sleeping children.
Who did not wake as the volcano
spewed out its molten core
and the tsunami crashed, then
receded, leaving behind only
the rhythm of two drum-beat hearts.
Which recline here, now,
caressed by the late evening
breeze, interlacing with
human fingers that will linger
forever over each other's flesh.
Unable
to remember
the last time
any place
in the universe
felt as home
as this.
by Steve Bloom
Steve Bloom lives in Brooklyn, NY, and works as a decorative painter and faux finisher. He has been published by Caprice, The Poet’s Pen, Medicinal Purposes and Flutter. Performance venues include the Saturn Series and Bar 13 in NYC and the Traveling Poets Reading Series, Bakersfield, CA.Visit Bloom on the web at www.stevebloompoetry.net
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