Bookshelves under the bar;
in the living room near the kitchen;
in the hall to the tiny study
which contains a legal width,
four foot tall WWII file cabinet
that smells of musk and old paper
in drab, drab olive green, a
desk, a printer credenza;
in the too slim hall to the bedroom;
in the bedroom opposite the foot
of the bed -
the bedroom where
dresser, side tables and storage bin
are to be found.
I walk about with bruised
shins, knees, thighs
murmer to myself.
Where are you?
My home feels empty.
