It’s been awhile since I looked around here,
at the hats, at the socks,
at the tv, at the books,
at the chair and the bed,
the pandas and the globe,
the mirror in the bathroom,
and the boxes in the closet.

there’s something odd about
all this ordinary stuff, even if
at one time it didn’t feel
ordinary

like this computer I type on now,
at one point it was a foreigner
to both this space and my
fingers

and yet there are hidden things too,
even they feel ordinary,
now.

maybe you have something you hide?

like:

the letters from lovers, the
diaries in drawers, the drugs
you keep secret, or the obsessions
you wish to hide

I have stuff to hide
(though none of it’s
on that list)

no,
what I hide is much
closer,
much more
dangerous
but harder to find than
anything in here

everything about my life
is strewn about this room
and I look at it all with
fresh eyes

I count it all up and think
perhaps this is my whole
life

except for a few things;
those I keep locked up
in my mind

those things

like:

what I really think, how
I really feel, why I really
write this poem, and where
the key to my heart and mind
really lies