The Study

Chocolate leather and macadamia walls
Too many novels to number
A bottle of aged rum
And An ancient answering machine
Nobody calls

Here is your safe-haven
In chocolate-macadamia tones :
This room you made your own?
It contains the truths of the world in books
And the Lies in an empty glass

my husband works daily
In the concrete jungle
Long hours, anxious nights
A stressful existence mainly
And What do I do?

I study the useless arts
I write poetry, fold the laundry,
Clean the dishes, read a play --
Cook something new, then pray too.
I cry almost every day.

I know my way about the study
But not about the streets--
I understand books but not people.
So I can't help but feel weak.
I really like my study, but
as the study studies me
It knows I'm not living
up to everything I could be.