The Room

Black November air
oozes across the pine board floor,
cold molasses being poured.
Shadows of craggy oak twigs
gnaw the walls for flaws.
The moon cannot escape,
so peers helplessly
from her thin blue ark.
His cries are swallowed whole
by the feather comforter
weighted on his chest.
The room is silent.

Leaden limbs remain distant thoughts.
Slumbering whirlpools of feline
warmth, curled in his arms,
are the only reminders
of life just beyond reach.
He pines against this mime
of impenetrable pause,
dreaming of release.

At last, a pop shatters
the brittle gauze.
An acorn, nudged loose
by a lurking cartoon bandit
in the tangled trellis above,
thrums a beat to crack the shell.

He shudders, hears himself moan,
surveys the familiar room,
and, with a deep sigh of relief,
turns back to sleep.