The house of myself

I am an inverse pyramid, more attic than dwelling, with a big front porch
and a tiny entry door with multiple locks. (You can knock, but I may not
let you in.) My days are spent under the eaves, amid books, old files,
photo albums, baby shoes and Sunday hats. You might imagine
nesting birds, morning song and sunrays penetrating the dust
and dark. From my vantage, I might observe neighbors,
street cats and life passing by, but I never raise
the shades, busy dreaming, writing imaginary
worlds, rarely creaking my way down
toward cooking smells, conversation,
distractions from my thoughts,
vaguely aware that below,
a heart beats and lungs
pump air, forgotten,
unless they happen
to break


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