This Room

            This is the last 100 words I will write in this room. Now the walls are bare, the furniture austere and strangely wooden. How did so many stories and poems emerge in this space? Where, in the straight white and beige lines between floor and ceiling, were jellyfish and copy machines waiting to poke their heads out and invite me over to watch their story unfold? I am leaving this room and will probably never return. The air seems flat now; could it be that all those things came from my head? My imagination waves goodbye and leaves for Washington.