How many rooms one occupies to lead

a life!—the child’s small cell, within earshot

of his parents’ smothered moans; the college room

assigned by number, a poster-clad outpost

of freedom; the married man’s bedchamber,

cramped scene of glad possession and sneaking sorrow;

the holiday rental, redolent of salt

and sun and other people’s cast-off days;

the capstone mansion with its curtained pomp;

the businessman’s hotel, a one-night stand

whose trim twin beds and TV sketch a dream

of habitation soon forgot; the chill

guest room; the pricey white hospital space,

where now the moaning has become one’s own.