The Room, Part 1

after The Room, Part 1 (1975) by Joan Brown

What’s better than melting
into a chair, into yourself,

eyes focused on brush
strokes in front of you—

During the Song Dynasty
Khitans hunted with eagles.

I could never hunt or
successfully ride a horse.

I’ve spent days melting
into my chair

planning outfits I’d like
to wear to work,

watching Lord of the Rings,
the director’s cut in its entirety,

gazing outside my window
when buses do a big stretch,

like cats, making a right turn
across the busy intersection.

When I was young, we bought
a chicken from Chinatown,

brought her home in a brown
paper bag with air holes at the top,

I bok-ed at the bird, she bok-ed back,
and I considered that friendship.

When it hailed, D made me go
outside so we could watch glass

shatter onto pavement
together. There, a tree in

foreground, ink-black,
a stamp on plum sky.

When it got too cold,
we rushed back inside,

googling trees in hopes of
identifying our neighbor,

getting distracted by an article
called San Francisco’s Top 10ish Trees.

Now, I am here, looking at art
and at people looking at art.

The last time I saw a hawk,
I stared at it until it stared back.