Room 47

My neighbor is searching through the drawers of his dresser
      and perhaps
          he might find,
  since the clumsy way seems to be the only way,
      those things I am trying to find
               would try to find
if I knew the way.

I changed, without realizing that I changed—
      it wasn’t the mirror that told me—
strange how no one tells you anything to your face—
   but a whisper that I wished I was whispering
            into someone’s ear. . .

I stopped singing the blues some time ago,
    but you told me that if I sang you would dance,
            and even though this is
                  the Age of Lies
      I want to believe you,
         I need to believe you,
              I need that chance.

Maybe you’ll have reservations about your reservation
  to hear the strange song I will sing—
      barely a whisper—
  what words, what notes, what phrases. . .
perhaps you will hear in them
            the things I’ve lost
     and the things
I’ve gained.