In the morning there is silence and haste
the harsh scream of my alarm forcing me to
'get up, damn it, get up'
All my reservations and misgivings
get washed off in the shower
Until I am polished to
work and keep working
with the quiet hands of guilt
nudging me along
But there must be,
in the midst of such
unconscious abuse,
something else
Maybe in the dust balls under my bed
there is a tiny world,
a microcosm,
that has carved out a place for me
and fashioned red dance shoes
so I can join their mini carnival
and travel to every corner
of my unkempt bedroom
Or maybe, just maybe
there is a world
that has already arrived
and is waiting patiently
at the airport
for someone to say
'welcome home.'
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