Dark, so dark. Seems to get dark at night, every night
Except where the street lights are, there it is light.
And backyards, lookin’ in on people after midnight,
Whoa, too much. Close your curtains, please.
Why are they yelling, or is that really yelling,
Listening to the wind, but listening to people is more fun,
Hitting the clothesline, my forehead raw, ow.
Throwing meat chunks to barking dogs to stop them,
And wondering when I need to head back.
My head is now full of wonderful ideas,
And I’m tired enough to fall asleep quickly,
Talking to myself. Who else will?
Hoping that the characters sleeping in my rooms
Are the ones I hoped they are.
Up here on the 3rd floor,
In Mineral Point.
Claire writes poetry, but no one claimed it to be good poetry. It’s better than a year ago. She’s full of life, full of curiosity, and hoping to tell the world about it.