Four walls, four thousand rules
a sanctuary with a price.
I sat in silence
upon foreign sheets
and pondered my well crafted demise.
Learning to fall
into 9 Grove's rigid rhythm,
was like trying to swim through quick-dry cement.
At 5:15, liberty ceased,
and if you are out to wonder
through autumn's leaves,
you were called in as AWOL.
I remember that season,
I remember it marked so well by those leaves
that were so like popping snare drums;
I often caught myself entangled in the reddish-yellow
haze.
I was so nervous that first night
that all i could do was keep my head down
and pantomime confidence
through my unspoken ignorance.
Most of my new roomies were going
on months of being here.
Months in somebody else's home--
months in somebody else's nightmare.
There were phantoms in each corner
crying for acknowledgment:
crude hand made quilts,
worn through children's pajamas,
empty drawers awaiting a purpose.
I was stuck.
I closed my eyes and listened for the popping snare
drums
that were glued to the icy sidewalks out in the free
world.
Autumn was calling through the cracks in the single
paned windows.
That was my autumn in a group home.