It's where he does his thinking
And spins a dream or two
A place to do some tinkering
Or think up something new
It's full of things for fixing
Or a part for this or that
It's wonderfully unorganized
There's a box of dusty maps
A postcard from a wartime friend
Is tacked up on the board
A place he'd like to see again
In a dirty old brochure
Some tools he uses now and then
Are in a rusty box
He has a cabinet full of things
Secured with an old, old lock
The window isn't very clean
But it lets the sunshine in
And he has a view of the path outside
Where he just might see a friend
It smells of wood and memories
That comfort him a lot
His glory days and bygone friends
Are never far from thought
A bare lightbulb glows in the night
When restlessness sets in
But it's quite alright, he feels good here
This one place belongs to him
Karen Shaw Matteson
© 2002
