Stephen Elliot Dunn (June 24, 1939 – June 24, 2021)
The room has no choice.
Everything that’s spoken in it
it absorbs. And it must put up with
the bad flirt, the overly perfumed,
the many murderers of mood—
with whomever chooses to walk in.
If there’s a crowd, one person
is certain to be concealing a sadness,
another will have abandoned a dream,
at least one will be a special agent
for his own cause. And always
there’s a functionary,
somberly listing what he does.
The room plays no favorites.
Like its windows, it does nothing
but accommodate shades
of light and dark. After everyone leaves
(its entrance, of course, is an exit),
the room will need to be imagined
by someone, perhaps some me
walking away now, who comes alive
when most removed. He’ll know
from experience how deceptive
silence can be. This is when the walls
start to breathe as if reclaiming the air,
when the withheld spills forth,
when even the chairs start to talk.