The Blue Room
I sit on a warm stone step in a doorway
to the Blue Room, the Morning Room.
There is much bee-noise and the noise
of birds: the acoustics are fine in the Blue Room.
Usually it may have rained overnight
in the Blue Room: this clear aquarium air.
In the Blue Room there is always one dove
–hidden here, hidden here–
and many honeyeaters,
up for hours, loony as tunes.
Today the Blue Room is available.
I sit among ants, between bees,
amid designer vegetation:
in the Blue Room, the Morning Room,
the wide Waiting Room.
from New Selected Poems (Duffy & Snellgrove, 2001), copyright © Peter Goldsworthy 2001, used by permission of the author.