Man in the Room

The room was quiet,
except for the clock
and the fan
with its low whirl.
He sat in a chair
and thought about
opening the blinds.
There were things
a man could leave behind.
There were other things
that haunted him,
like ghosts
that weren't invited.
He'd learned that much.
The morning had
nothing to say to him,
like a pouting woman.
Coffee on the table,
keys beside it,
an old novel by Steinbeck
he'd just finished reading.

Jack watched a roach
crawl across the floor.
He watched it for a while.
Then crushed it
with his shoe.

He thought about
the old days,
not with regret.
Regret was a luxury
for people who hadn't
lived through their mistakes,
hadn't learned a damn thing.
He'd made his choices.
Some of them
had cost more
than he bargained for.
The clock kept talking.
He stood up,
checked his pockets,
slipped on his pork pie hat,
grabbed his wallet
off the mahogany dresser.
The keys.
The phone.
Everything a man needs
to slip away.

Then he opened the door.
Outside,
the morning sang
a green song.
The sky was
a crazy Van Gogh blue.
A red Volkswagen Bug
rolled through the intersection.
Yellow and orange leaves
danced across the sidewalk.
Somebody laughed
a few houses down.
He stood there
for a second,
then stepped into it.