One Room (Poetry)

I wake sometimes and think I’m in that room
crammed with ghosts of tenants from before
heavy curtains drawn, dust adding to the gloom
the creak of wood, a shadow by the door

Then I remember I have long moved on
and yet that bedsit crowded with the past
haunts me like it mourns the fact I’ve gone
though my passing through was not the first nor last

But those lonely years of living left their mark
a membership — and there are nights I swear
those four walls press around me in the dark
and a company of strangers lingers there