His room was bare.
Stark white walls,
an old-fashioned simple dresser, a bed.
My favorite part was his closet.
Carefully hung dress shirts and slacks,
his favorite sweater, slightly worn loafers, wingtips,
a single pair of sneakers.
I used to go exploring while he slept.
I never found any hidden secrets.
No incriminating photos,
just snapshots of his daughter at a birthday party,
at the park.
No pornographic magazines, just albums and albums of baseball cards.
There were no whips or chains hiding under the bed, either,
just a long lost pair of slippers.
The truth is
the only thing that seemed odd or out of place
I guess he finally realized it, too.