The dog stops barking after Robinson has gone. <br />His act is over. The world is a gray world, <br />Not without violence, and he kicks under the grand piano, <br />The nightmare chase well under way. <br /> <br />The mirror from Mexico, stuck to the wall, <br />Reflects nothing at all. The glass is black. <br />Robinson alone provides the image Robinsonian. <br /> <br />Which is all of the room--walls, curtains, <br />Shelves, bed, the tinted photograph of Robinson's first wife, <br />Rugs, vases panatelas in a humidor. <br />They would fill the room if Robinson came in. <br /> <br />The pages in the books are blank, <br />The books that Robinson has read. That is his favorite chair, <br />Or where the chair would be if Robinson were here. <br /> <br />All day the phone rings. It could be Robinson <br />Calling. It never rings when he is here. <br /> <br />Outside, white buildings yellow in the sun. <br />Outside, the birds circle continuously <br />Where trees are actual and take no holiday.<br /><br />Weldon Kees<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/robinson/
