my room, the room I spend most time in,
is small and dark

that sounds dismal to you
I can tell
and I agree, it is

but sometimes, somehow
it transforms,
like at this very moment,
into a bright, sunny skyed
technicolored candy store
all pink and rosy cheeked
marshmallow soft
sprinkled with wintergreen eyes
and bins and tins
overflowing
with excitement and wonder
and happy little poems, cute and clever
pop from the rafters
to a boogie-woogie stage
strutting their stuff, squealing with delight
and I write it all down
and then claim copyright

now another day, another night
...the lights dim
the lonely moan of a saxophone sets the tone
a downtown dive, moody and brutish
naughahyde tough guys, swilling hard,
grumble something about the vig
then, she, a veritable vision of a blonde bombshell
shimmies into the spotlight
the grumbling ceases
as she sings of lost love and sorrow,
...sultry eyes, so distant
a voice over narration whispers
her heart-wrenching story
a tragic tale of heartbreak, loss, and shame
having no shame myself
I write it all down
and, of course, claim copyright

so, you see
my little projection room
and me
aren't as dismal
as you'd think we'd be

although, a small fridge and a wet bar would be nice