The Room Where You Sleep

This used to be your bedroom:
One window and a door to let in light,
Coffee table resting just outside,
Making company with the refrigerator and stove;
It now lives in here.

This used to be your bedroom:
Stifled sleep – no summer air flow to seep in,
Nightstand crammed into the corner with the thin heat pipe
That softly whistles in winter.

You sleep out in the main area now:
Headboard against a larger whistler,
Jesus watching over the apparatus,
Windows bayed and able to lift and shut.

There are times I feel I’ve slept everywhere,
In every corner of every room in your space.
But sometimes, I feel I’ve slept nowhere close,
Not even outside your front door,
Not even on the stoop,
Not even on your block,
Or in your neighborhood,
Or in this city,
Or in this state.

I leave for Central Time in the morning –
Maybe with distance I can picture
The room where you sleep
With me in it.