At Least Now

If anything can be made into a poem,

like this glass of water,

what about my bedroom, the room in which I sleep,

in a bed, naked, beneath a crumpled blanket,

blue, before a mirror above the dresser, the latter stacked with books?

I remember talking at night to my brother behind the wall.

Fifteen years ago.  My twin brother slept where I sleep now.

He slept there until he – we both – went to college.

It’s not my room.  Now it is.  At least now.


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