Long Roommate Poems
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The hair was standing at attention on my neck again.
I was being watched. No doubts this time.
Validation comes on my spine and neck first.
I looked beyond the bushes, wondering if it was an animal.
Someone said my name. I waved automatically.
But no one was here. I was alone in the swirl of twilight.
Only a block to walk between the library and my dorm room.
The air turned cold, and I felt a quick urge of panic.
Was someone following me? My shoes clicked down the walk.
Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. Slap. I was going faster now.
I turned the corner and there she was. My doppelganger.
Standing with my friends, howling at something.
My legs stopped walking. I shook my head. This made no sense.
You didn’t make it! A voice said. I turned to see my grandmother.
When the chandelier fell on you at the library.
Was there time to warn my roommate?
I ran over to her and tried, but she did not look at me.
What is wrong with her? I asked my grandmother.
She gave me a hard lined mouth look and faded away.
The next ones to come were not as kind.
I was torn from my friends screaming.
I have not been in a bathroom with the door closed for nineteen years.
This is what being a grandma is all about.
If I closed the door, I would either pinch little fingers
or the baby punk’n carrier seat would not fit in there with me.
I have willingly given up the luxury of privacy, and here is the perk.
When I lose my mind for good I plan to stick up a mean-looking
Convenience store with bars on the windows.
Something in a seedy neighborhood, where the owner is apt to be packing.
One of three things will happen.
One. I will be shot dead by the clerk who does not know my gun is fake.
Two. Death by cop. I am sorry, but if it is to be, it is to be.
Three. I will be taken alive, and given a cell and a roommate for the rest of my life.
I can stop making house payments, and luckily, I already know privacy is no big deal.
Think of all the money my children will save by not having to pay for a nursing home too.
Lisa comes into my room and flops on the bed. The day had been uncompromisingly gray, windy and cold. The night sky was a snowy, blowing darkness, an absolute void that absorbed the campus lights and reflected nothing back. “I’m missing Spring Break,” Lisa she says.
“It doesn’t even seem like Spring Break happened,” I say. “Most Yalies went to Puerto Rico this year, I think, from my sampling.”
“RIGHT?” Lisa said, “EVERYONE says that - we’re in sync. But *I* enjoyed Paris,” Lisa continued, “I liked your family - no - I LOVED your family,” she amends.
“THAT’s a strong take,” I say, chuckling.
“I watched basketball with your uncle (Rémi) and cousins and helped your grandma cook,” she explains, “I felt like a part of your family.”
“Aww,” I say, “You ARE part of my family now - you’re TRAPPED,” and we laughed.
They invented spring break because after several months, the student mind starts to notice a harsh reality - how much their dorm room resembles a cinder-block jail cell - and starts to wonder how a lifetime of study and stress over grades has gotten them no further in life than the average felon.
We’re at lunch. Lisa says, “Ok, what’s new with you?” Keep in mind we see each other ten times a day.
“Well,” I say, I’ve decided that “The Beatles are for spring.” Lisa laughs. “Stop!” I demand, “I’m going deep. Today’s song is Julia,” I say, “It’s John Lennon’s song to his mom who was run over by a car when he was a child.” “I love that song,” Lisa says.
“Ok, what about you?” I ask.
“My song right now is “Move like a Boss,” Lisa says, “When I’m walking across campus, with my air pods on - I’m intense, don’t get in my way - I’m dangerous, I’ll Will Smith you - I scare me.”
“Good to Know,” I say, wishing I’d gotten a lemon brownie.
Then add, “I’ve got this presentation on Monday that I haven’t even had time to *look* at yet. If I don’t get on it by this weekend it’ll be a nuclear-level disaster. I started on it yesterday and the Internet went down for 20 minutes. It was stressful - of course, you don’t know how long the outage is going to be when you’re IN it - and I had THINGS to do - is that convoluted? ”
“No,” Lisa says, nodding in agreement, “losing the Interweb’s traumatic.”
I said goodbye and watched her walk away,
My heart and pride in pieces on the ground,
She'd pleaded long for me to let her stay,
But cold, was I, and answered not a sound.
I'd gone home to my place the night before,
And found her blue sunglasses on my floor,
Though she had never called on me before.
My roommate was a buddy from my school,
A handsome guy with bucks, and very cool,
And now, it seemed, I was their jaded fool.
She left, I turned to find him - make him pay,
But he was walking up as I turned 'round,
He said "My new blue glasses, you'll adore!"
Oh, how fate and assumption ... can be cruel.
Written and submitted on December 2, 2018
For "Fragmented Rhyme - November 2018 Writing Challenge" Poetry Contest
Dear Heart, Judge & Sponsor
We were (Leong, Peter, Anna and I) eating at a popular Italian eatery (outdoors) and the check arrived - I swooped across the table and grabbed the check from the waiter. Peter whispers, “You can’t pay for everything the entire weekend.” “Why not?” I say, “It makes me happy.” “There’s no reason to,” he says. “I need a REASON??” I snort, which always makes Leong laugh. “Have you MET me?” I say, shaking my head dubiously. “I’ve met you,” he pronounces, “and you’re a NUT. Thank you,” he says, indicating the check exasperatedly.
Peter’s transfinancial: a rich man trapped in a poor man’s body. He has taste but he exists on a grant and a meager stipend. We’re just friends but I’m holding a bag and he’s not. Besides, he needs a new laptop - badly - and shouldn’t be squandering his grips on me.
Greek-life is on the rise. Maybe it's because those groups offer planned social events or because, with COVID winding down (covid smovid) there’s more going on. There’s a pressure here - to be your most authentic self - to be top academically, socially - to have your calendar filled out. There’s a frantic nature to it. I’m being lowkey rushed for a fraternity (for next year) but I love my roommate situation and I think I’d druther stick with this set I love.
Which begs the question about social time. Should it be methodical, relentless, super planned out? Super planned interactions can seem transactional and not easy going and natural. College social life is so different from high school. College life is so much more charged in every way. The range of people you meet, the broader perspectives, the available options for activities.
I find myself in a search for balance. Private time vs social time. Before covid, you’d go to school and then you’d come home to your room, where you could just hang out. It was a self-care place.
At university, a dorm room is less of a “home” where you can be alone and spend that healing time. You never know who's going to be in your living room and what they’re up to. I get claustrophobic when my door is closed so I rely a lot on noise-canceling technology.
A dorm room can seem like those covid lockdown days - there’s little or no separation between academic and private space. I’m just unpacking some thoughts. *shrug*
Slang:
set = click/group
grips: duckets/money
holding a bag = flush/monied
Hospitals are designed
(a) to make you appreciate your bed at home
(b) to prompt many unanswerable questions
(c) to facilitate smooth patient care
(d) to never complain about your wife’s cooking again
Referrals to a psychiatrist are made when
(a) you become catatonic after having no sleep for a week
(b) after complaining about a noisy roommate you start convulsing with frustration
(c) you ask the nurse for a sleeping aid and she brings
warm milk
(d) You are all set for discharge but the Dr is delayed in surgery all day
Reflecting on a hospital stay makes you
(a) wonder how you survived the long nights
(b) vow never to eat chicken broth again
(c) appreciate there are no drafts behind when you get up for a walk
(d) note how quiet the house really is
A ghost can follow me if he wants to.
There’s not much in here I can do.
There’s not much I understand.
When the ghost takes my hand.
I was eating in the cafeteria at the time.
A plastic fork in my hand, picking at slime.
He was the type of ghost that could chat for an hour.
He could have cut the power.
But instead he reminds me that I will leave.
He promises it will be before Christmas Eve.
That’s all I really wanted to know.
In this hospital surrounded by untouched snow.
On the 22nd of December.
That’s the day he told me to remember.
That’s the day my parents appeared.
That ghost helped me with the fears I feared.
That my parents would never come back.
I found myself taken aback.
That they came back right at 2:05.
When the ghost told me they would come back alive.
At that moment, the lights flickered and shut down.
I felt a bit bad when I left that town.
All the ghosts I left behind.
The last thing the ghost said was, “Be kind.”
I left him in that hospital.
Leaving it a little less full.
My mom asked if I had a roommate, and said I wasn’t sure.
I lied and said it was all a blur.
A ghost can follow me.
But he’d rather live in that room, unhappily.
I fell asleep outside,
on Lisa’s windy, 50th floor terrace.
It was indulgent, sensual
and lethargic - it crushed.
I forgot the time.
The sunset was intense,
a violent shock of color,
like an existential smack in the face.
I felt a lot of joy.
I’m feeling optimistic.
We leave for New Haven tomorrow.
I believe in the future.
Leeza popped her head out of the glass doors,
she was wearing a small, pale, skin bikini,
“Wanna go to the (indoor basement) pool?”
I stretched like a cat, “Sure,” I purred.
.
.
a song for this:
Hit My Heart by BOY
Relax by Vacations
.
.
Our cast:
Leeza, my roommate Lisa’s 14-year-old skinny, redheaded beauty of a little sister.
Lisa, one of my Yale roommates whose parents live in a Central Park South, Manhattan Highrise
His aspiration to be couple
Which defined might maketh
Him lonely
That I might be a sweet remind
That he should suffer from his
Labors
And mi act to be define
He chorest me that must suffer
That I beyond his brow
He chorest me
That I am whore
And his his wants
Are that of thou
He chorest me
To what ending
That who's money
I have found
He chorest me
Might he labor
And mi need
Be with thou
I have whored in parts
To make suffer
Those who wish to
To love and leave
I have tasked to bring
Asunder men who wish
To be with me
Who chorest me
Must I labor
To have men
Want for me
He chorest me
My whitest behavior
Has a world
To look to me
Brian was unrelenting in his passion.
There was no hole to go through anymore.
He had flipped the world upside down and
had watched it dangle on his finger,
And now he was sitting dejected.
Stuck in the middle of his small apartment,
Roommate-less, rent-less…
And then women appeared.
Like small flocks of doves,
They wafted into his apartment
One after another.
Looking for a bedroom.
A conversation,
A good time even. Maybe.
Suddenly the world began
Its old familiar roll.
And Brian was no longer dejected.
I say this in the spirit of Old Vice; Love’s Creator.
That when Brian reflected,
Not on the women appearing
Like a bowl of grapes into his lap,
But on the system of the stars,
He was caught.
In the Wonder of Time.
And, moreso, the Brilliant Lyricist
That is Time.
Brian.
Lost in his woods.
Lost in his apartment.
Lost in Grateful Waters.
His eyes swimming through hearts.