Coming Home

When I carried my duffel bag up to
My old room,
leather backpack slung over my right shoulder
Macbook in hand,
I found a small disposable camera
Just sitting there,
In a pile of old magazines.
I picked it up, full roll of film.
Without thinking, I snapped my first picture.
My pillows, with their old-lady print
That didn't match my quilt,
The one my grandmother made,
equally dowdy,
but less colorful.
I turned.
The next photo was the miniature Tibetan Prayer Flags
hung across my windows in lieu of curtains.
They came free in the mail one day
And no one can see my room anyhow.
Next, my dresser, covered in debris.
Old, cheap, childish imitations of make-up,
Costume jewelry,
Acne medication,
My softball mitt,
A porcelain doll.
Click.
My mirror, full-length,
Propped against the wall.
Turn.
Old concert tickets,
Autographs from bands
I no longer listen to.
My door, with its faux-vintage travel stickers.
My bathroom mirror,
Open and Closed.
The inside of my closet.
My cowboy boots.
My duffel, with it's old-lady print.
That does not match my pillows
Or my quilt.
Sitting on the foot of my bed,
Waiting to be unopened, unpacked.
I leave it for the morning
And use up the rest of the film.