You go to bed from your calm TV room,
(with paneling, you initially dismissed)
a room made finely for your moods, like demure
rain, stopping and starting unpredictably,
challenged by Nancy Grace, and missing smiles.
It is movement more planned than before, more
careful than the quirky, erstwhile dancing
I recall. Nights are the 'goodbyes' staged to be
less hurtful, not the impression of taking a trip:
visiting your sister in North Carolina, when
there was wistfulness but vibrant food.
Now five new rooms have lent their comfort,
(and mountains subverting your fear of heights) :
each room: practically new and serenely old.

Lamont Palmer

http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/planned-movement/