My little glass room.
Viga ceilings and bright light.
Afternoon sun makes it hot
Fans in the window temper the heat.
I love it so much I don’t want to leave.
I feel my solitude.
Like the last queen of Hawaii,
I write in my upstairs bedroom, a prisoner.
Sitting on the toilet,
open window doors frame
the muted greens, reds, and blues on
brown of the desert.
I awake to sunlight and smell bacon beckoning.
But I resist
savoring my last moment in bed.