Late in the day I gravitate to the back
room with its east facing window.
My domain, an aesthetically flawed
montage of memorabilia and ample quiet.
It lacks a woman’s touch — no scents
of jasmine or scrap of bright color,
no personal pictures on the wall —
granite tabletops, dark leather furniture,
a view of the shadowed garden.
I wait in this room for night
to fall, whistle bawdy tunes to keep
Sinatra slow dances from my mind.
Full dark quells the fear
of the west rooms where demons
are trapped in the sunset, waiting
for me to release them.
Written for the Sunday Whirl. Really had a hard time fitting ‘whistle’ in there…not real happy with those couple of lines. All in all, a tough word list for me this week.