Marvin Snell Poet Free verse

Strange Familiar Room

I think it was a Friday when I first noticed
I had wandered off the map of myself
and into some unmarked territory
where the street signs were written in my handwriting
but I couldn't remember putting them there.

It's like when you say a word over and over—
"fork" or "elbow" or your own name—
until it becomes just a sound,
a collection of syllables that have forgotten
what they were supposed to mean.

Except this time the word is you,
and you've been repeating yourself so many times
you've worn away the definition.

I imagine this is what happens to mirrors
when they spend too much time looking at themselves,
which of course they can't help doing,
being mirrors. They must get tired
of their own reflections, the same silver face
staring back with that blank expression
that could mean anything or nothing at all.

Some people get lost in the woods.
Some people get lost in cities where every street
looks like the one they just turned from.
But I got lost in the hallways of my own thinking,
took a left at a memory, a right at a regret,
and suddenly I was in a room I'd never seen before
even though I'd built it myself, years ago,
and apparently had been living in it ever since.

The funny thing about getting lost in yourself
is that you're always exactly where you are.
You can't call out for help because you're the only one home.
You can't ask for directions because you're supposed to be
the one who knows the way.

So you sit down on the floor of this strange familiar room
and you wait, I suppose, for yourself to find you,
which is a bit like waiting for your shadow
to come around the corner and apologize
for following you all these years
without introducing itself properly.

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