The next poem I write will have a
fireplace guarded by a metal see-through sheet and a triangular folding metal fence.
Wet firewood, later to produce mass amounts of smoke, lay adjacent to the rocky walls of the
fireplace. Underneath the steel grate rest remnant white ashes from past fires.
The next poem will have a desk in the center of the basement. There lay a dark grey HP computer, mechanical pencils, Bic ballpoint pens, AP study books, and small marks of lead scraped on the plastic wood-like cover of the desk, forgotten to clean or erase.
There’ll be a home gym in the next
poem. One pull of a silver pin and another muscle group is implemented.
Its red cushions with Platinum Macy imprinted in stand out the most. The next poem will have an L-shaped, black, leather couch.
But there won’t be any maroon pillows. I’ll be sewing them together.