Rooms

I never wrote about
the brackish birds asleep
on faded spearmint green
beside that sleek oak mirror

Or the soft felt tapestry
adorned by silver faces
pillowing safely down
gripped to a close white ceiling

And my colonized poet
behind an unlocking door
who thin-souled and glared
calmly looking thin

There also stood black Pharaohs
stirrupped heroes on cleats
under afro-made helmets
blurry on sheets

Even pennied plastic
of a bitten-up plug
velcroed still wishes
in formative bends

When it all subtly meant
to be a boy as alone
means bluntly now
being alone as a man