The Upstairs Room

Before moving in with a loving man,
I lived alone for five years.
I grew accustomed
to my own company, often making tea
by microwaving a cup of water
and sleeping
almost horizontally across the bed.

That might help explain why
I love this upstairs room
he must knock before entering
and where glass after glass of wine
piles each night because
it’s much easier to remember to drink
than it is to pick up after oneself.

Last winter I painted walls
that had been chipped
like china. When sunlight aims
like a spotlight onto the far wall,
blues, yellows, and greens
from every painting and trinket reflect
like a prism against the soft oatmeal color.

Now, at night, light comes
from one lamp,
and music plays faintly
as if from another room. I sit
in the only chair, yellow and plush,
and the cool breeze from the window
is a relief against my tired legs.