Brutalist Siesta

The wall puts on a helmet of light
and pretends to be human.

A single window blinks,
half lamp, half lonely eye.

In the corner, a chair folds into itself,
an origami soul in concrete pajamas.

The handrail thinks it is an arm,
the arm thinks it is a bridge,
the body forgets which way is sitting.

Yellow hums like an overworked sun,
mint and violet take notes in the margin.

This is not a room,
it is a pause poured in cement:
a place where architecture sits down
and finally admits it feels too.