Room 212

To them it was an envelope, a packing box, a drum not filled with oil but with them.

White wood framed the waving glass on all their sides and something green was prickling from surrounding skin.  They had a tea in corners of a pocket.  They were sealed, assigned and ready if they had to go but maybe not today, thank you.

The sky was blue and fell on someone, molding up a hat.  A kind he liked.  He wore it to the envelope wherein two people rose and said, “Not today, thank you.”  Surprising them, he tipped his hat.  The following OK and smile, coming as they did upon re-settling of his hat, engendered winds destroying all their friends.  A hum a breath a funnel-up of clouds.

This was the year of predetermination and a cuddly “Not today” was just a nicety, a nod, a courtesy, a fan; a filling for their little cakes, a whisker for a mouse, a lime.  And so they would not go today but maybe on a morrow, lo, they would.  They had another tea and sang a couple songs while packing everything they had, in case.  It came to nothing, really, nothing ever did, and as it did not bear considering, they did it all as quickly as they could.  A spool, a gear, a turbine.