The Holding Room
The second floor, one-bedroom apartment
In the 1930 pink house three blocks
From the ocean on 8th Street in Belmar
Was where the phone call
Shattered my early morning slumber.
The furnishings were meager —
A cheap Occidental rug connecting
Discarded pieces of furniture in a room
Lined with faded floral wallpaper,
A small kitchenette with ants
Crawling over the white appliances,
And a bedroom I don’t even remember.
Snuggling next to you in one cheap
Dark blue sleeping bag, warding off the cold
When the heat malfunctioned
Brought little relief from my grief
But your grey fur, large black eyes,
Beautiful face, loving heart, and
Willingness to be confined with me
Made me feel less alone.
After the call, the rooms got smaller
And darker, newly papered with guilt —
The sleeping bag, now a coffin.
The only blessing was the light
That switched from on to off
And the song “Love’s Theme”
That played every time I got in my car —
Both signs that she was still with me,
Or so I had hoped.
Now I can’t even drive by that house
Or the room where the sleeplessness began,
Where my life took a horrific turn
From independence into a well of loneliness
Three blocks from the sunrise at the
Expanse of sand at the Belmar Beach.
