When I think of my old room, it is always my bedroom when I lived on Lawrence Street as a teenager. It was on the corner of the second floor of a 3 story 6 bedroom house, in the back, next to the bathroom.
Out one window was our back yard and the gigantic oak tree we buried my dog Flockie under when she died at 14. The other window looked out on the basketball courts and what was known in the neighborhood as Dogshit Park, because of all ... well, you get the idea.
I had a phone in that room, first time I had a phone in my room. My stereo. And a double bed. Gorgeous antique dresser, Harley Davidson giant banner on the wall. A bookshelf that was crammed full, as my bookshelves have been all my life.
I wrote a poem about my room when I was 21. I still remember it.
It was my room.
A teenage girl with a room all her own
for reading and fucking or just getting stoned.
Good night. Close your eyes. Lay your head on your pillow and sleep.
Awake, face the day
Stow some crank in your nose, touch your toes.
Go out, run about.
Your room will be here when you return.
It's not going any where.
Safe and secure, like a womb, or a tomb.