it happened one day perhaps in your hometown

I walked into a room a standard room and

by that I mean a floor, four walls, a window,

a ceiling,–– and the door I walked through.

and there's a sink with running water, but I can only imagine

the toilet is somewhere out of my sightline.

––nobody has been in this room so nobody has died there.

no flies no pets no television not one man save me and being

my self-centered self, the guy who won't leave well-enough as it is,

I'll welcome guests.

––but who? who would I invite into this unblemished room

this virgin room innocent of heaven and hell and all their demons and saints?

–– priest? ah, yes, of course it’s priest. he's long dead but still feels

I disrespected the institution by dismissing his advances for a secret

sacristy fondling episode below the hemline of my surplice.

Tony Scelsi, benchwarmer, served as my replacement.

but I’ll offer priest a taste of cheap rosé with faucet water chaser,

and take his full confession to exacerbate his historical awkwardness.

––and maybe a friend from the old neighborhood. the drowned friend,

or the one with a self-imposed cancerous lung, or the sweetest girl-child

stricken by the grace of God with a fatal blood.

––or perhaps the personage of Mr. Wally Cox would be a tantalizing invitee,

although his selection may seem unreasonable to others submitting applications.

that's a distinct possibility, but did you know––

this sheepish little guy, this meek Mr. Peepers with the mannered, high-throated

contralto was one of Marylin Monroe’s closest friends?–– so, maybe Wally Cox

might spill-the-beans on some juicy Hollywood gossip, so to speak, and as I see it,

a distinguishing element to fill-out his showbiz resumé for inclusion into the room. 

but of course that "tell-all" would be well before Joltin' Joe stepped-up to Marylin's plate.