In My Own Space

In My Own Space

The World has a loud voice
with which she shouts in brassy tones,
as she crashes into my personal space,
wearing a different face with each
unannounced arrival.

Then fusses around my brick-a-brack,
making cracks about how this, or that,
lacks elegance or verve, and with
bone-chilling nerve, is indifferent
to any response I might offer.

Lock my doors against her, but
it does no good. She seeps through
the very wood of furniture and fixings,
bringing a thousand varied mixings
of what she thinks is new,
therefore important.

Used to chase her through these rooms,
trying to get her to settle down, but
she’d only frown, then fly into a rage
because I wasn’t turning the pages
fast enough to keep up with her
ever-changing demeanor.

Have learned to play dumb, actually
softly humming when she comes now,
through whichever threshold she chooses.
She finds me in my chair, sometimes pats
my hair, while whispering about the loss
of a mind when she finds me coloring.

Just smile and nod, acting in a somewhat
distracted fashion, then watch her leave
in silent grief, at this waste of her time
and effort. Knowing full well that she
will return, always wearing that face
of just one more better place, she alone
thinks I need to fit into.

Elizabeth Crawford  2/2/09

For Poets United: Poetry Pantry – 2/3/13
http://poetryblogroll.blogspot.com/