The Yellow Room (II)

Eyes in the curtain let in the sun,
lacey bringers of morning with clipped-off wings.
The moths have gone
with the moon.

I sing from bed
in the yellow room.

Frère Jacques, frère Jacques

The cat has left me cold again.
He bobs his tail against the light
and out the bedroom door.

He is looking for a tuna can.
I put one by the sink before.
The stink is in my lungs.

Dormez-vous? dormez-vous?

The roses are still sleeping.
Who will water them in the snow?
Who will cut them for my vase?

The room is wearing an empty face.
It takes my questions with a stare.
I hear the echoes everywhere.

Sonnez les matines! sonnez les matines!

The cuckoo shrills a sound.

It is time for the beardless boy
to bring the daily news.

He is bashful as a fawn,
drops the paper quiet and quick.

I will leave a tip in the Christmas mail.
He should have a winter hat.

Din, dan, don. Din, dan, don.

His mother sings him lullabies.
He falls asleep before he cries,
dreaming of the news.

She will not send him off to war.
The boys are taking rest.

I fear the cat is getting old.
I have lost the borrowed shoe.

I sing from bed
in the yellow room.

Frère Jacques, dormez-vous?