Poem for Saturday, July 11, 2009

Four Walls

My childhood, I

came home to

discover, was

reduced to

four walls.

For eighteen

years, I slept,

played, laughed,

cried, read,

masturbated,

dreamt, and

grew in this room.

(Pale blue paint,

dirty carpet.)

All the holes

in the walls were

patched up, and

all my posters,

certificates, and

decorations were

in boxes.

(Popcorn ceiling,

smudged window.)

The dark oak

dresser, the desk,

and the bookshelf

were in transition;

the bed

temporarily neglected

in the garage.

I just stood,

examined the room

for ten minutes; I

looked everywhere

and saw myself

doing something

there years ago.

(Everything was gone.

Everything changed).

But not

anymore--the

room, the four

walls--were naked,

just as I had been 

many times within 

them before.