Next Poem

On a cool afternoon in January
the Sun comes through the pair of 
drab-gray curtains over the sink
on the kitchen table, near the 
stacks of cooking magazines.

I pull out a black swivel arm chair
from the garage and lie back on it
near the window sill of my kitchen
my head rests on its top rail. 
The oval mirror over the fireplace
reflects me sitting on the chair, 
its edges sew by the white
lace of curtains.

My both eyes remain close as
I let my mind wander through the
folds of long memories from my
good old days. And I keep waiting for
one of those enticing moment of my life to cross
my mind so I could write a touching line
for my next poem.