First Key, No Furniture

Online, another cheap place, fake brick wall.

And then it hit me, that particular fall

back to the smell of my first key.

Chlorine and stale smoke, just for me.

The single bulb, a weak, bare thing,

hung in the kitchen, couldn't bring

much light to peeling lino, rusted sink.

I remember standing there, just trying to think.

No furniture, just boxes, stacked and tall.

A mattress on the floor, against the wall.

Freedom, they said. And yes, a kind of space.

But mostly just the echoing disgrace

of thin walls, a door that wouldn't lock.

Listening to my own small, lonely clock.