by Lana Hechtman Ayers.
This red room is coming to an end.
See how the overhead bulb flickers?
You insist on baking bread
but I have no time for crumbs.
Allow me to sink into violet chimes
as my shadow grows deeper.
Some will gossip about sonnets,
others about Sonny Rollins on sax.
All curiosity transports,
no boarding ticket necessary.
Every time it rains, know
that it’s just me saying hello.