Morgan retreats. He retreats into Schubert,
into his journal, into his imagination, his silence.
Away from the personalities, the out-of-order,
from the invading noise, Muzak and spoken words.

In the box of the hotel room he felt separated,
disconnected in this West Coast paradise;
Morgan looked out onto the immaculate offices
to see no one but cars, somehow indicative of mood.

Yet there was comfort, albeit disconcerting, confusing:
the lights seemed just right, the flow to be observed
so that although he knew he placed in that stream
he also appreciated the box, the view and the quiet.