the furnished room.
—John Wieners
He goes on to say his bed is
only big enough for one,
it looks like a/casket.
Spend a little time with me
and you’ll recognize the
familiar glance, the
needy nod of I can so relate
and we are such kindred
spirits. Spirited?
But I am no ghost.
Not yet, anyway.
And I have lived here
as long, longer, than
I’ve lived any place
but one in my
grown-up life.
Maturity has nothing
on me. And this place
is home. For now. For
longer than just a little
life. So it bears no
small significance
to this little life.
Even as many
times as I have
somewhat spitefully
called my home
a coffin, I still live.
Not wholly
within
this space.
And although this
small cube of dancing
air is mine. Inasmuch
as this steaming
hotbox has me
gasping for it,
air. Oh, it’s not
overwrought
like I am
sometimes.
I want to say
I have my pride.
Believing in the
warmth of
home, as I
still do here
in mine.
