There’s a room in your house;
what it’s for you do not know.
It seems to collect odds and ends —
the varied detritus of a life lived.
You’d never invite company into this room,
not a friend, not a lover, not a confidant,
and certainly not your therapist.
Sometimes you’re eager to visit,
but other times you dread it —
at such times, you must be pulled by an unseen force.
You’re never indifferent about it,
because it’s never a boring trip,
because this room is rearranged daily.
How it’s rearranged, you do not know.
To the best of your knowledge,
you are the only possessor of a key.
In fact, to the best of your knowledge,
you are the only one who knows how to find it.
Even you couldn’t draw a map.
Its entrance is deep and concealed.
You get there by intuition —
never by counting corners.
Sometimes you are stunned or startled by what you see when the door opens.
Other times it’s as though you’ve stumbled onto a treasure trove.
But the fear, elation, sadness, or madness is short-lived.
For the room is like a vow of love scrawled in wet sand at low tide.
