Poetry

Totem

Constructed slabs.

All angles and joints.

At war with each other.

                        Enclosed by this.

Totem.   White.  Smooth, curved.

At odds with your surroundings.

In your white room.

Year on year.

Your exterior examined.

I stand and look.

White, brilliant, white.

In your grey prison

                    I’m soothed by your infinite curves.

Your never-ending smoothness.

Immersed in your fluidity.

Totem, always alone and unbending, clamped within walls of grey.

Some times you include me

when I have fallen into your cool marble strangeness.

We are both curved, then.  

Polly Wheeler