top of page

The Familiar Rooms, Poem

Updated: Oct 20, 2020

In August 2020 home is the only place

I am allowed to be for very long.

So after folding away the chores

I shelter in place, in my small house of habit:

in all the familiar rooms

of my body.

I crochet the shawl for my sister,

yarn over, pull through,

again and again down the hallway

of my old deft fingers.

I open the flute case

to unlock the music room

and exercise muscle memory in octave runs

of quarters, eighths, sixteenths.

But memory is not enough: my arms, legs, lungs

must visit my secret swimming pool,

the only one open,

the one I will never own,

where I enter the silent water: slow song of stroke, breathe, kick.

I am the only person here.

By ten my body becomes a bedroom.

Sometimes I can find the quiet key to sleep, sometimes not.

The closet of dreams is usually closed

and if it opens I can’t remember the names of the people

moving through a clouding future, people I am sure

I once knew, must know now, names slipping,

slipping from my grasp.

Carol L. Gloor


Recent Posts

See All

Small Comfort

Small Comfort In the morning my small cat cries, his sad meows like a newborn’s. I follow the sound check all the closets to make sure he is not trapped. But no, there he is at the base of the stairs,

bottom of page