The Unfurnished Room

The landlord's mail came today, cold and blunt,

and I remembered that first month, that strange front

of freedom, in a room that smelled like old smoke.

My own key. No one else to revoke

my claim. Just me, and the noise outside the pane.

Walked by a 'For Rent' sign, saw the same

kind of blinds, warped plastic, yellowing gray.

My futon on the floor, the only thing to lay

upon. That brown water stain, shaped like a map,

above where my head would be, a slow, damp trap

that never quite fell. The quiet was loud.

I felt so alone, and so incredibly proud.