I look across the room,

the shelves, a hanging painting, portraits,

original works,

there are pieces of furniture

design who we are, at least,

they suggest us, indicate we are here,

and I come to the conclusion this room defines me.

I ask why a lot, what is it that matters,

I ask these questions especially nights like this,

when I am unable to move, to respond,

to recognize that this identity of mine cannot be

a generalized reality.

I look across the room and wonder what my life might be like,

if none of this were here,

the coffee table with select magazines,

the creme colored furniture that has comfort and style,

all of these items have become part of who I am,

and then I pause,

I recognize, it’s not just me,

but everyone,

we all created this world together.

Yet, I’m stunned when I come to that conclusion,

that place where I often feel compelled to suggest,

I don’t know how any of this defines me.