his bedroom, as if he was coming
back
from the war.
the poster of Farah Fawcett
still taped
above his bed
on the wall.
the bed neatly made,
clean
sheets and pillowcases.
his football
was on the shelf
his ice skates
and a baseball
glove.
his schoolbooks stacked
upon the floor.
socks and shoes
scattered about. jerseys
and hats.
a b. b. gun
in the corner.
a picture of him
at his first holy communion
on the desk
next to his stereo
and records,
while
his television sat on a stool.
Playboy magazines were
still stuffed beneath
the mattress with the articles
yet to be read.
sometimes they'd
unlock the door
and take a look in,
telling each other,
no worries,
he'll be home soon.
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