She saves herself with words in rows
From city’s lumbering waste
Blind shoehorn doling life in drops
Calling this the Dream
Where concrete cures ED with steel
To hide the impotence
The lies that promise happiness
In latest gadgetry
The songs New! Better! More! The Best!
Echo from the walls
But there she sits, all window-framed,
And lives within a book.
The windswept moors or roiling sea
Valleys of forgiveness
Towering mountains of despair
Streets without the trash
China, Rome, or Mars, lines of prose
Just as real for her
Suitcase unpacked or words in rows,
When all is said and done
Both fantasy and memory
Live only in the mind.