Leaving the Empty Room by Stephen Dunn

The door had a double lock, 
and the joke was on me. 
You might call it protection 
against self, this joke, 
and it wasn’t very funny: 
I kept the door locked 
in order to think twice. 
The room itself: knickknacks, 
chairs, and a couch, 
the normal accoutrements. 
And yet it was an empty room, 
if you know what I mean. 
I had a ticket in my head: 
Anytime, it said, another joke. 
How I wished I had a deadline 
to leave the empty room, 
or that the corridor outside 
would show itself 
to be a secret tunnel, perhaps 
a winding path. Maybe I needed 
a certain romance of departure 
to kick in, as if I were waiting 
for magic instead of courage, 
or something else  
I didn’t have. No doubt 
you’re wondering if other people 
inhabited the empty room. 
Of course. What’s true emptiness 
without other people? 
I thought twice many times. 
But when I left, I can’t say 
I made a decision. I just followed 
my body out the door, 
one quick step after another, 
even as the room started to fill  
with what I’d been sure wasn’t there.