the ball

i walk down the hall and don’t see the world,

don’t notice the pictures on the wall,

pay no attention to the creaks my footfalls engender as i pass over sagging bits of floor

that testify to the age of the structure i call my home,

intent only on my destination.

the bed in the room at the end of the passageway

was made this morning.

the sheets are pulled up to the pillows,

and the creases are smoothed out.

i clamber up the too-tall side and skittle towards the centre,

curl up into a ball.

head to knees and arms wrapped tight,

and i listen to the rain as it bounces off the windows

and the last leaves on the needing-to-be-pruned magnolia.

i’m perfectly suited to this dreary november day;

the cold grey wet and pervasive gloominess matches my insides.

i hug myself tighter and keep my head buried in the hopes that this might drive

the dark demons away.

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