Alone with all these people talking,
I’m almost one with the room.
Maybe I am the room!
Have you seen me anywhere else tonight?
Now I’m the paisley couch.
Anonymous legs try to tickle me with dull jokes.
Or my face is the Oriental rug.
I can hear my own wool lips chattering
like so many Chinese women.
My table top needs polishing.
My lap’s ashtray is full.
My floral drapes are heaving for air.
Help! I watch that artificial fern,
Snake out under my bathroom door.
Wait fern, not yet!
Our guests are searching
for something to remember.
Don’t crowd them out!
They need fresh images to carry home!
If you don’t stop, you’ll hide them
from one another.
I give up; you might as well go head--
I guess they won’t know the difference.
I am the room, the same room,
but lost in a web of plastic vines,
alone with all these people talking
in a tangle of leaves and words—
this reaching out and getting nothing.
Kay D. Weeks