The new room that was always there

 

The house was built, with the knowledge

and careful forethought, for the arrival

of the day when the waste could connect

to the magic pipes below.

 

All of us children of that time and in that place

remember the backyards dug, the trenches

laid out like archaeological digs; we recall

the many games we played in that earth.

 

In the beginning we lived with the outhouse

and the strong man who came up the drive

ushering in the new can

and removing the overladen old.

 

Inside was a room, just by the back door

on the right side, a room

that had no meaning except a thought

that in the future it would exist.

 

That room once held an assortment

including, but not exclusively,

an Indian tent

mops, brooms and boxes.

 

A small room I could hide in while others searched

even though they always found me,

I was the sort who would rather be caught

than spend an eternity waiting for victory.

 

I could never be a room such as that room

waiting patiently, being many things

but all things done quietly,

no fuss, no stamping and yelling.

 

That room understood the meaning of bide – instead

I followed the tide, out and in, a rush both ways;

never a small room, unlit, quiet, waiting

an allotted time for purpose to arrive.