I lie in bed in my red pajama bottoms. It is Saturday morning and no one knocks on my door to wake me up. Mom is at work and I am alone. I go into the kitchen and put cereal in a bowl. There is no milk because Mom forgot to buy some. She does not always do the right thing. She says she is overwhelmed. I eat the cereal dry. The apartment is small. The furniture is not ours. I go into the hall and stare into the mirror that is not ours. The sun comes through the window and lights up my hair. I shine. I am golden. My eyes are sky. My skin is sensation. I touch myself. I am warm. The mirror whispers my name. Jakob.
I am new to this forum, but I guess we are expected to comment on things we notice. I just clicked on this and really liked it. Poetry is sometimes very personal and speaks to the poet more than anyone else. That is what I write - and may post here - words that have meter and meaning to me that others may or may not understand. This I understood. I was there in that apartment, looking in that mirror and seeing the morning sun. The image I had may not have been exactly yours, but I actually saw those things. I liked it.
I appreciate you taking the time to write. No one else did. Since this was my first visit to this forum, I certainly did not know what to expect. Your note at least gave me some hope.
