The Room In Which I Sit

Overlooks green paddocks and a Manna Gum laneway
Is a snug weekender
Sometimes smells like sausage fat but always of black coffee
Is a gallery of curios and hand-me-down knickknacks
Reverberates when it rains
Is where father and son converse over cups of strong black leaf tea
Has been my prison for the past 147 days
Has a fold-out couch beneath curtains swaying in the breeze
Is full of Indigenous art (Bush Tomato Dreaming, Butterfly Dreaming, The Seven Sisters)
Overflows with unwashed pots, pans, plates and cutlery
Has an aspect on an Elders calendar on the wall and the paddocks beyond
Occasionally overflows with sunlight, ideas and possibility
Is more remarkable at 3:17am
Reflects slow moving clouds, a peaking sun and an overcast sky
Is sometimes vibrant but mostly lonely
Doesn’t look much different when laying upside down
Is awash with fearful apprehension
Has crooked blinds, damp washing, and cheap whiskey.