Somehow these rooms work for me
Empty as they are
  A reminder of coming and going
Somewhere to go
To be
Someone is leaving
It could be me

It’s late fall outside
But winter in here

Summer has yet to be designed
There will be no time
For spring
Or the cleaning it suggests

Solitary nails cling
To picture-less walls
Waiting for new tenants
To hang in display

But why should they wait?
Maybe I should take them
               With me