Father's Room

Homeward, on an hungry belly En-route a quick long trek, perhaps It’s the hard day-after-day norm And the poor little boy is mind-full He deserves some respite– and even more If only to furnish a compleat cycle But, couching in an utopian suite, was miles from the priority– ‘twas scarce and sparse; like rainfall in the Sahara Maybe it had to be invented- a make-shift Not a very likely pick really: Plastered with harmattan dust Everywhere strewed with literature and scrap and other features of sanguine entropy But no more of pleasurable comfort Howbeit, with serenity and quietude, it was his choice Preferred above the Burj Such was the incubator his mind reveled in - Sandwiched like a worm in a book in the tranquility of darkness And when the dawn enters It does with refreshing enthusiasm, For there was enriching activity in father’s room