She walks through this place
like a tour guide,
her whole life exposed,
paintings on the
walls she loves,
books on shelves by
authors
she most admires,
her work station
complete with
at least one cat
keeping the keyboard warm,
couch lining the
window side of one room
with TV on the other and the program running
with her favorite TV food personality,
further on, her bed and bedroom
and the tall shelves in one corner
where she keeps a
variety of attire
on the off chance she might not fit
in one the next time
she tries on
the smaller size,
a simple life that is far from simple,
the place she feels
safe in,
but only if she can
bolt the door,
illuminated by
sunlight now,
by the glow of the big city by night,
though in those awful early morning hours
before pre-dawn,
when she wakes in a sweat
over something she
can't
keep out of her head,
even this place can't
protect her.
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