At the Allen Lee, First Night

I lie here 
in a lonely place 
yet finally I am here 
in my own space: 
four walls 
of faded plaster, 
a ceiling lamp, 
a desk, a chair,  
a TV which gets four channels, 
the blind eye 
of my closet, 
twin exposed pipes, 
flaked with rust  
which run form a furrowed ceiling 
to carpet, colorless and dusty, 
and the bed 
where I lie prone 
with book and pen. 
 
I take a deep breath 
and call it mine; I have a key 
to lock my door.  
 
All those  
bus stop benches 
stone sidewalks 
and leafless parks 
were home; none 
were mine.  
 
I listen deeply  
to the silence underneath 
the soft swoosh 
of passing cars 
outside my window.  
 
I breath deeply, once again 
and call the silence mine.   
The TV screen 
reflects my face, its speaker 
muted, because 
I like my silence.  
 
What else 
is in my room? 
Here’s a mantle of loneliness 
I breath a sigh 
and call it mine.  
I have friends all around me;  
here are 
Sylvia and Pablo 
Lucille and Rita 
Langston and Yusef, 
friends enough 
to have a party; yet they are all 
made of paper; their flesh-and-bone selves  
will never see me 
prone with book and pen 
in my silent room.  
 
Here’s a card emblazoned  
with a dewy red rose; 
opened it blooms with love 
from Bianca, Chris, Alice, 
Jae and Lindsey.  
I met them once 
in a warmer space, they all said 
they’d keep in touch; tonight 
their voices form 
a choir of silence 
 
yet the prayers they breath  
in the silence of their rooms 
hold one urgent plea 
that I can lie here, 
safe from rain, wind, and winter 
and write with this pen, in this book,  
in my room.