A little space here
which I have walked into
where love resides but lies hidden,
gathers dust. A quiet space
where love resides but relaxes
and changes its clothes.
I can’t make it out.
The light is uncomfortably dim,
but comfortable almost in the non-knowledge
that love resides,
that it rests in a chair, which squeaks,
and carries on its business.
Answers letters, pays bills,
and sleeps.
A small space,
but freedom to move,
and a window, thankfully, hopefully,
upon the world.
[Full disclosure: this is poem #6 in a series of poems mentioned here.]
David Hammond 