Foster, "Childhood's Room"

My childhood room: my bed, the curtained sky
above the neighbor's roof; storm windows, square
just-vacuumed carpet; dresser, desk, and chair;
a life in drawers, preserved against the day
I might require it. Home is where you stay--
where now I stay at Christmas every year,
beside myself: boxed with the past, unsure
what place is left my heart can verify.

But worst: he stays here with me, out of sight,
holding his secret expectations tight,
turning his clear new mind to every whim--
games, insects, foreign coins, math, fairy tales . . .
Or lies awake. And I know what he feels,
there waiting, deceived, for me to happen to him.

Greg Foster

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