spare rooms (draft)

(i know you’re going to find this hard to believe, but i’ve been working on this for a while. feedback not just welcome but desired; i want more from this poem than i’m getting.)

this is my spare room.

there are enough guitars in here
to start a guitar store
if i wanted to call this room
a store.

i write often enough in here to call it
an office,
pretend i’m an artist often enough
to call it a studio,
and toss in my sleep often enough
to call it a ship.

yes. it seems like i sleep in a ship
that is a studio and an office
and a store to hold and sell off
things i love.

back when this town was built
there was no such thing as a spare room.
every room had a body
and it gained a new one
when someone died or moved on.

i live in a spare room
that is just waiting to be reassigned
in a town that used to make things
and now is a place where people sleep,
where there are spare rooms everywhere
and ten thousand impermanent purposes
in every square mile.