The Room

There is a room within
where favorite records play
where it smells like a seattle boutique
and your photos are displayed

There are no lingering spectators-
no lines or crowds or cliques-
no paparazzi flashbulbs
or snotty loitering kids

Even between numbers
you can only hear the street
but there's no horns or gritty engine noises
just the distant fall of feet

There are corners-liberally cushioned
where favorite books are read
and the thoughts that confuse and clutter
hit the paper- from my head

There are potted pants that I can't kill
they can sustain themselves.
They're right beside all my best-sellers
on well-dusted maple shelves.

One wall boasts a mirror
which displays my angelic pristine face
and a lean and supple body
decked in lingerie of utmost taste

Beside that there's a telephone
with a machine that always blinks
because Hollywood can't stop calling-
they say I'm perfect for the screen

And the sun reaches the left side first
so it's where I put my bed
with egyptian cotton sheets
and a dozen feather pillows at the head

And there's the box
that plays all my favorite films
in classic sepia tone-
But I'm moving out if you won't move in....
I'm sick of living here alone.