Private Room

Sometimes she drowses

With mom, pipe dreaming 

Over a chamber she didn't

Have and wanted to get.

Like a wandering spirit, 

I occasionally see her 

Moving in and out of 

Their confined portico.

Whenever the clouds 

Descend from sky 

After a heavy rain, I 

See her in their piazza 

With a piece of paper

And a pen in her hand.

Once she told me, four 

Lines of her poem were 

Born in kitchen, six were

In porch, and two of them 

Were in their bedroom.

At first I pacified and

Comforted her, saying 

This is normal and women 

Have to endure all this!

Later did I only remember

That no two lines of my

Poem has never surpassed

The lattice door of our domicile.