And so I came to sit again, alone in a room dusted with years. It’s a room that has had another occupant. He died all too soon; car crumpled like an un-ironed suit. This room no longer has a bed. I have a table here where it was before and I rest my poem filled computer here to sit and think. Papers and scraps of thoughts are strewn all over the floor. A flag is pinned on the far end of the room, near the ghost haunted corner where I keep my art books. Every area of space in the room is occupied. Every inch. Every spot. By dust, books or music. Not much else, other then me. Alone but not alone, isolated, but with company. Words and images, sounds and similes. Looking at emotion and trying to put it in some order. Maybe I will at sometime, but this room is still watching me. I prefer to wait until he has fallen asleep, sung into a stupor by the hum of the traffic and the constant fluttering of the leaves, falling from trees that look as though they have been planted upside-down, roots pointing towards the sky like frightened worms. I would like to think my silent friend can sleep despite the fact that we have removed his bed. We all need our sleep. Even the dead.