When the Rooms Were Warm, He'd Call

Ano poems remind me of all sorts of things. And sometimes i think i should even tell you what they remind me of. But if you're not finding yourself in a poem, often you're not found very much at all, is what i think. I don't know if i'd agree with that if i saw it written down, but e feels right at the moment. When the rooms were warm, he'd call. And slowly i would rise and dress, fearing the chronic angers of that house,. speaking indifferently to him who had driven out the cold and polish my good choose as well...what did i know? What did i know of love's austere and lonely