Room Enough

A tall light burns on the corner stand.

A sharp triangle from picture frame to tabletop.

Table cluttered with disuse and neglect.

Silence sits, sulking, next to the beige couch.

Newspaper flaps over the arm, another flops beneath.

Old magazines, half open, sprawl on a pillow.

Another light breaks the shadow and burns lightly,

Softened and caressed by the tan shade over the glass.

More light pouring from a reversed tub of white

Overlooking a softly ticking clock and dead plant.

Then comes the floor, stretched out and lazy with dust,

Hiding in safety between four stout walls of green,

Covered by the course material of a worn out carpet,

Smothered with books and records and table and chairs.

Stones spilled by the door are tiny, unseen and sharp to toe.

                        What is it about this room?

                        What is missing from this room?

A man sits alone in the center.

A man sits alone.

A man alone.

Man alone.

Alone.