I live in a room of mettle.
On the walls papered with platitudes, yellowed with time,
hang rhetorical limned canvases displayed in frames of mind.
I sit in the middle of that room with my sunny temperament
and an abacus of implications on my lap.
I notice vapors of rage seeping in because I left the door ajar.
(When is a door not a door? ha ha)
Should I get up, cross the room, and slam it shut?
After dark, after my bath, I unpin my hair, slip into a fresh
nightie, and embark on the prowl through my yard.