late night huddle

this strange, quiet place
this red room, half-finished
this mirror-move, pictured somewhere else

and I wonder how your work goes, I imagine
noisy, smoky laughter and the clink of glass, 
intrusive muzak,
not Ladies Night at least, you won't
have to suffer your bottom pinched

movement here is still unco-ordinated, 
a tentative tripping over 
unopened hall boxes,
all a mirage still,
not quite real life, here, this place,
fingering fate gingerly and wondering
what the future holds

and yes, I did bolt the door, 
and someone has moved in across the hall,
and it's late, too strange, too quiet, and too red,
this place, without you

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