The Thinking Room

The air was silent and quiet--
Just the way I like it.
It must be that time of year again,
When all the furniture gets hauled away,
Clearing the same dull brown carpeting
Of forgotten books, empty beer bottles,
And piles of unwashed clothing.
My every wall cleared of taped-up posters
Of models, sports cars, and rock bands.
The silence and solitude of my own free land.

What is that? Did you hear?
I thought I heard voices in the hall.
No need to worry.
Probably just the people from next door.
Wait! There it is again! Laughter, shuffling feet,
And the echoing of the lock giving way.
What would this madness be,
Disturbing my sweet security.

I see him enter, carrying a cardboard box,
Weighed down by its size.
More follow, bringing more boxes along,
Resting them on the clean, speckled time.
I hear them all talk, but I never understand
Just what it is they say.
The one that first entered--
He's the one to blame! He's the one!
Against my will he invades my space
And forces me to share this place.

They bring in the usual things:
An air mattress that one day will pop,
Metal frames of an uncomfortable futon,
And that strange box of moving colors and shapes.
Eleven bodies in all, more than I had expected,
Yet hope still lingered that they'd go.
That hope drifted into the night
With little sign of peace in sight.

Day comes and people go
Out through the door that they had came.
The one man left alone in silence,
Amongst a mess of unsorted things,
Leans against the door and stares
With eyes wide in excited lonely fear.
I can't help but feel for him
As he falls onto the moaning couch.
Perhaps we weren't too different.
Perhaps I was too quick to judge.
I'd give this new guy a try,
Until we too say a sad goodbye.