We were tasked today to write of a room that we remember. My room is my office back in my old home in Connecticut.
A Room of One’s Own
On the second floor, I walk into my room
With its aged carpet, a gray overcast,
And its crooked closet doors about to
Fall off of their hinges. My bookshelves
heaped and straining with tomes of poetry.
The windows white paint chipped,
baseboard clicking awake to warm
my space. The smell of grapefruit
and jasmine; my desk tucked into a corner
covered in the colors of knickknacks
and homemade ceramic pots, lopsided,
filled with bookmarks, pencils and pens.
Perched on top, an open notebook,
Its pale lined pages like my open palms
asking to be filled.
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