Not Quite A Room Of my Own

Of all that I wanted when I was growing up
what I wanted most was a room of my own,
a door I could close against those around me
whose overt unwillingness in sharing space
I could neither point out, nor hide from.

My escapes from Boarding school life were few,
we were not meant to like melancholic music.
One boy who attended classes lived in the town,
he was the person I was drawn toward; The flat
his parents lived in was cramped but friendly.

I shared his interest in amateur electronics
where  his bedroom was his workshop
and as introverts we had to stick together.

Time spent with John cannibalising
old transistor radios to make amateur
short range emitters from their parts,
and other time-consuming experiments,
was my escape from the boredom of school.

That John's room was his own,
and he would get a job from his hobby,
was immaterial to me. He was kind,
and through sharing his slowness,
his creativity. He reduced my anomie.