The Good Old Days

at the rear of the house stands a box room

the room contains a bookshelf full of creased books,
a desk that my pal Bill and I built together more than twenty years ago,
a filing cabinet and an Amstrad computer that still works,
some old school briefcases, the sort that pre-date briefcases with the combination code locks.

the box room, admittedly tatty, functions as a type of sanctuary for me, enabling me to gather my thoughts in quiet.  

once a trio of old mates came over  
we spent the entire night cramped in this tiny room, sharing a bottle of whisky and playing cards while Bill recited poetry in a slurred voice, causing the rest of us to cry with laughter