I'm dreading the return
to that room
in the harshness
only cast by florescent bulbs.
I can hear the girls now,
a whole cluster of them,
giggling and swapping stories
in the open hallways,
or behind closed doors
leading to other rooms like mine.
Can I not stay,
cloistered away in this apartment -
the hardwood gleaming,
a warm bed shared,
a kitchen and fridge
all our own?
Can I not stay
in this sanctuary
where I am fed,
where I'm told, "Thank you for staying here"?
Can I not stay?
The sun is dawning and
the cold air is leaking
through the cracked window.
The return has arrived
and I must pick up my bags:
carry on.
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