a space for me {poem}
finally - the luxury is mine/
of a chair that’s comfortable and threadworn and not-terribly-unpretty/
well. most of the time. it’s mine.
the luxury of a/
single/
vintage/
table, with a designer’s hand-stamp,
and a secret drawer to keep secrets in/
(gifted, of course.)
a blanket-throw that’s colorful like me/
that nobody else lays claim to/
(bought on sale, of course.)
is there space for me?
finally -
to have the luxury of a room where i don’t have to compromise/
where i can see my books on the shelves/
steady + stable/
surrounding + grounding me,
walls of wisdom/
insulating me from soundwaves of tyranny/
the feng shui flow of my plants, my altar/
the way the evening sunlight shines thru this pink glass piece/
(gifted, of course)
infusing the space with heart-chakra glow.
that luxury is only for me,
because only i notice.
to expect these things must be decadent, and not mundane, because i find they’re the first casualties when anything must change.
