My Working Space

A poet may have a mythology about their working space,

outer vantage from which to view their inner world—
my back porch, in my case.

Like Stone House in his mountain hermitage—that place
visited by Red Pine, where the tiger purred.
A poet may have a mythology about their working space.

It might be wherever the poet can sit and face
existence, while they assemble words—
my back porch, in my case.

Feeling fairly safe from the police—
cold, late September, I’m curled
up in my blue bathrobe in my working space,

and I’m hearing a voice,
but I think it must be the neighbor’s radio—words
jabbered in my ears. But in case

you want to visualize, I’m wearing my chipmunk fleece,
and the Rose of Battle has their flap unfurled—
ancient myths jousting in the working space—
my back porch, in my case.