There's a crotched rug smoothed flat over the single bed.
Colorful squares contain its pattern, each square in its right space.
That's not how it is for me, now, or maybe ever.
My life has no pattern, no meaning, simply no place.
This little room, with its dead night mood, and shabby rose pattered carpet,
Created for the unravelled, now captured in the glow of the small lamp.
Who stretches out in sleepless repose, and watches the hours dull senses to the
Steel white concrete walls that smell of loneliness and damp.
Tushie 1976
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