My Blue Room   Sometimes I hear them murmuring — the sad things in my blue room, the things I keep locked in there. Each one once tried to drive me mad,   burn down the whole house, right to the ground. When I hear them whispering about the bad old days, begging for a little attention,   I unlock the door and let them talk, let them recite the old stories again until all I hear is the ticking clock.     © Michael Fleming Brattleboro, Vermont October 2025