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.