The Room Where I Write
The tick of the heating,
as it kicks in to life, chasing
the cool of night out of this
room where I write, comforts with
more than mere heat. It is
sweet and familiar and safe. This
place is my own space, where
there are no others to care
for or about or to shout or
silence with. I would spend more
time in this room where I write
but then we would fight
about the rights and wrongs
of it. No life is that long.
Is it do what I can or do what I should?
Or just do the right thing. I would if I could,
but I’ll just stay where I am
and I’ll do what I can,
in the room where I write,
quite alone. In the night.