The Room

John Ashbery

The room I entered was a dream of this room.
Surely all those feet on the sofa were mine.
The oval portrait
of a dog was me at an early age.
Something shimmers, something is hushed up.

We had macaroni for lunch every day
except Sunday, when a small quail was induced
to be served to us. Why do I tell you these things?
You are not even here.

My Thoughts on the Piece

I liked how abstract yet specific the language was in this poem. I think the way this poem was written enabled me to think about the story in my own way and I was able to let me mind wander in the world it created