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This room

I’d like to walk into rooms
and read poetry to people.
Not to have them wonder about me
or think I’m something I’m not.
But to have them feel something
                other than the despair of the moment
                other than the frustration of having to answer the question before them.
It fills me up.
Like a weak battery recharging
like the first       deep      breathing            on a Spring walk through the yard
like a quenching drink.
It satisfies
and makes me feel whole again;
like I’m a part of something.
Something bigger than me
something I just shared with someone else
who sat in a room
close to a window
writing the words the wind brought in.
This room could use that same breeze.

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