This is your room, a man’s room.
Tall bookcases line the long wall,
(opposite the fireplace with gas logs
you installed when it became too
cumbersome to chop and carry wood)
books in rows or stacked atop each other,
leather-bound, hardbacks, paperbacks,
in odd sizes and colors are stuffed untidily
in ordered disorder. And thus they shall remain.
A faded dun leather chair with well-worn
arms and seat sits near the hearth, light
from the broad windows streaming in behind.
A sanctuary, a library, an office and retreat,
warm, serene, with Mac Baren Vanilla Cream
clinging to every warp and woof, fiber and thread.
You are this room. This room is you. I am bereft.