After Work Hour

There is no door knob

not in this room, the guest room

just a hole, it offers voyeurism

of the empty hallway.

There is one window

not blessed with curtains or shutters

but an Arizona red sleeping bag

tacked up by nails.

We have a desk, oak

and as ancient as sitting

although the chair is downstairs

tucked beneath the piano

I am on the blow-up mattress

it quivers with each strike

of our two cats,

that circle each other

like gladiators at my feet.

This is my after work hour

inside a makeshift room

where depression and I fight

over me

like Hades and Clio

who take swipes at each other

without claws.