This house I’ve made

Here is the ground-ridden floor

dusty, because I refused to have it any other way

And here, friend, are the stained walls

saddish, drabbish, anxious to drip away

and painstakingly, I have tried to coax them down but

In the end,

the construction of its interior is a memory I share

maybe

In the end,

it is my room to leave behind

and my burden to relieve

With a comforting, already reminiscent aroma

that refuses to do the same

With another thought more than I ought

perhaps two thoughts less than I should,

I toss what was a wonderful cuppa joe