You Want To Write

you want to write in an apple green closet
with the snow coming down inside and
one frosted lightbulb:(the old kind)

your secret thoughts;
and then it rains.
exterminators come

and you hide your notes
and feel ashamed
that your cubicle apartment

wasn't perfect
when they walked in
with their: all those books!

exclaimed;  funny looks,
exchanged, as though you were hoarding dinosaurs.

tromping in regulation boots
they don't stay very long,
but it doesn't feel that way:

rooting out the few skittering enemies.
turning back with a smile, a tip of the cap and
glad to be out of the way.

and now they've gone.
(but not the bugs, who understand you
as you do them). compadres.

the snow settles in. 

the lightbulb is again your friend,
both on or off;
on a golden chain,

yet free

mary angela douglas 13 january 2016