Room 133

July 20, 2015

And yes, there he woke,
if we can say waking up
when from deep sleep you enter a dream
so bright that could well be another real place
And in fact that one could, being a room,
properly furnished and with
a cat inside too.
Hello there, kid, said the cat.
All black it was, with a star of white,
a four pointed or ray’d star, more points than rays,
on collar or neck, and eyes deep blue.
He had, he thought, such a cat,
in his childhood days,
brought by someone or streetfound,
quickly adopted, and fled astray
after a while, but too early for any
– dad, mom, him – to christen it somehow.
So Cat was always his name,
and there he was now,
standing like man or ferret
more man than ferret, on the carpet
midroom, of cyan on navy, fitting the azure,
indigo and all nuances of blue
of the drawer and four chairs,
two sofas (those, big)
and six pillows on each one
(the table had no stuffing of course,
but engraved it was, in purple on prussia
and some fat lapislazuli too).
What’s your issue, kid, tell me,
is it the posture?
Well then, said Cat, and took
a more catlike position,
and purr – even – did he,
and stretched and settled his paws:
Now you are in the dream.
The dream? Which dream? said the kid.
The dream of the blue room:
room one hundred thirty three.

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