The Room, A Home Pome Poem by Glen Kappy

The room I call a closet—
bulging crowded stacked—
in places near the ceiling—
holding your supplies for sewing
quilting beading tinwork knitting
photography and more—

this room could stand for us—
for you the restless doer—
drawers and shelves and bins
for tools supplies and books
that you like near—

and me compulsive cleaner—
with my preference for order
weekly pushing vacuum
through the narrow path that's left
between the clutter on its floor.

And it could stand for something else—
the much of what you mean to me
(as it comes to me this morning) —
the countless moments shared
which only mind, not space, could store

your generous and unbent heart
your honesty concerns accomplishments
(which make me proud of you)
the fun the places pleasures
that your freer self has led me to

and not the least—
the debt I've come to know
for what you've done in shaping me—
that makes me better than I was
when we began those years ago.

It could almost stand—
for stuffed unto its uttermost
with the sum of what I know and feel—
this closet room could never hold enough—
a warehouse would be better still.