room number five

the boarding house
with its five rooms
each locked with its own key,
each with a bed
a dresser, a set of blinds
broken and pulled tight,
the shared toilet
and shower down the hall.
this is where your lost
brother stayed.
unbusy in the fog of his
crumbled life.
the woman who owned
the house, peered out
her window, suspicious,
reluctant to answer
the big door to let
anyone inside. protective
of her tenant's rights,
finally coming to answer
the knock in curlers,
a toothbrush scrubbing
at her teeth. a blue robe
the color of an april sky,
half untied.
what, she'd say, can
I help you. inching
the door open just enough
so that you could smell cabbage,
or a cat box,
the fumes of cigarettes,
or bread burning in a
toaster. I haven't seen him,
she'd say, but I assume
he's still alive.
he got his mail yesterday.
try again tomorrow.
i'll let him know you
stopped by.