The one with the
         crack
along the middle,
dark and so thin
words could fall through
like water in a colander.

Under the grand chandelier,
a slew of sheets
spat with confident blue juice,
cardboard-covered notebooks,
a team of paper ***** to be tossed
towards your wooden jail.

Sketches of mice, polar bears,
a recipe for rabbit at his right elbow,
red Shakespeare
and a well-read thesaurus
as scruffy
as recently rinsed blonde hair.

You always ***** the lid
on your own *** of ink, black,
sleeping silver scissors
near your French dictionary
and shells over a plastic
sunglasses case.

The table
in the room
in the house on Tomás Ortuño,
serenity bathing you,
a golden spark
of solitude.