The Other Place

I dream: fishbowl house, Sausalito shoreline.
Floors of rusted linoleum,
paint-spackled chairs. Doilies. Space for indulgence,
spend silk-robe days slathering brie on crackers with fig
spread.

There, I read and write, the music loud as I like and
I never turn on the air because it’s asylum,
and I do as I please.

I’m alone, not lonely,
night doors stay unlocked, windows swung wide
so that men can peer inside,
but they don’t strangle beat kill me, hurt me.
They just watch me sleep.