Sunday Night Poetry

The Suicide's Room 

I'll bet you think the room was empty. 
Wrong. There were three chairs with sturdy backs. 
A lamp, good for fighting the dark. 
A desk, and on the desk a wallet, some newspapers. 
A carefree Buddha and a worried Christ. 
Seven lucky elephants, a notebook in a drawer. 
You think our addresses weren't in it? 

No books, no pictures, no records, you guess? 
Wrong. A comforting trumpet poised in black hands. 
Saskia and her cordial little flower. 
Joy the spark of gods. 
Odysseus stretched on the shelf in life-giving sleep 
after the labors of book five. 
The moralists 
with the golden syllables of their names 
inscribed on finely tanned spines. 
Next to them, the politicians braced their backs. 

No way out? But what about the door? 
No prospects? The window had other views. 
His glasses 
lay on the windowsill. 
And one fly buzzed-that is, was still alive. 

You think at least the note must tell us something. 
But what if i say there was no note- 
and he had so many friends, but all of us fit neatly 
inside the empty envelope propped up against s cup. 

--Wislawa Szymborszka