In a small room, I can be heard
oh yes, the scuttling of feet
oh no, my identity is discreet
and even when I shout, you can’t distinguish a word.
In a closet, I feel right at home
for Christ’s sake, the dark dominates
in Heaven’s wake, I’m cluttered and prostrate
stored next to gifts for “To”, with no idea who they’re from.
In a back yard, I frolic on the ground
as a magician, the show is more of an act
like a rabbit, the opinion becomes more of a fact
suddenly, the trick isn’t knowing where I’m going,
but what I found.