Our Place

Some find refuge in the crevices and caves
where the sun never enters and it’s cold with shade,
the air is stale, among the company of oak desks,
wooden chairs, and remnants of scribbled, thoughtless poetry.

Not to worry. The potted daffodils I kept in the corner,
far from the kitchen window, all bloomed
in the mild desk lamp light sat beside,
orchestrated by the hum of a 40 watt bulb.

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