my room

the bare white walls
the mattress with no sheets
lying on the floor
the empty closet
the still fan
the empty space
the warmth
from myself
the small light
the nearly empty glass of water
the almost clean
but not quite
the silence
the quiet
the heat
the pen
the paper
my hands
torn and bleeding
the stillness
nothing
and no one moving
the finality
the boxes
and bits of metal
and plastic
these coats
hanging in solitude
my shadow
darkening the walls
a glimmer
a spot
a small black hat
an old blanket or two
a few bags
of nothing
I feel at peace
and for the first and last time
this room
feels as if it were mine.

January 27, 2010 akw