GEORGETOWN STILL LIFE

John Buckley

His room is small
The door opens like the sturdy cover
Of an honest book
There's no flourish
But facts
From a faceless closet;
Where there was a singlebed
And a clean desk is revealed
The wood floor
In a corner of what used to be
A Civil War hopsital;
The man belonged here
Now his bicycles and his boots are gone
The door knows not to sigh
When it closes.