The alarm sounds,
Right of your head.
You moan and you groan,
And thrash your arms about,
In search of the OFF button.

Finding it,
You press it;
And roll to your feet;
The mindless drone of
The alarm ceases.

Shuffling tiredly down the hall,
You come to the room beyond.

Elderly furniture that sighs with old age,
Dog hair-littered sofas,
Creaking in search of help and comfort––
Perhaps in their own vernacular,
That only they may understand––
Cramp the room.

The piano in the corner,
Silent and still,
A fresh coat of dust
Laden upon it like a veil.

From the kitchen to your right,
The coffee machine beeps––
Proclaiming a fresh load
Of coffee on its way.

Sally, your delightful mutt,
Waddles to your feet––
From the sofa where she
Drifts from rabbit-chasing dreams.

You decide to pour yourself a
Bowl of cereal,
And a tiny glass of milk.
About to dine,
You sit yourself
Down at the dining room table.

Papers (work papers, to be more precise)
Litter the wooden ocean of the Tableland,
With inky trees and scribbles of canyons;
Wide, ancient valleys with arrowhead ends––
Or are they beginnings?

Leaning back in your throne
At the head of the table––
Like Odin, the All-father,
King of the Gods,
Dining in the Halls of Valhalla––
The chair sighing beneath your weight,
You come to realize one thing––

And one thing only:

That this is your home,
And that means one thing, one thing only:
HOME.