A solitary window, no door.
Sanded red oak floors filmed by saw dust.
A palpable solitude.
A hammock fitting two precariously.
A soft wool blanket with a slight itch.
Comfort minus complacency.
A luminous fireplace shinning like
Sunlight through tree boughs.
Assertive but gentle, the lover's touch.
A virgin desk, sympathetic as
An observer to the fruition of my failures.
A passive Panzo.
In such a place,
An easel and an empire,
Would I muse and write unfettered,
To rise of my own, a Camelot.
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