she no longer 

daydreamed 

of sunsets 

nor of a man on a 

white horse 

nor of miracles 

nor of dancing till 

dawn 

nor tantrums

nor true confessions 

nor her lover 

she only imagined cities 

who’s cafes she could write in 

a table and chair she could 

inhabit

with her pen and paper

scribble her thoughts down

drink a glass of wine 

and let the rhymes take 

her away 

she would live her life 

simply 

by walking to the café 

to her table and back 

then walk from her table home 

to a solitary life, of her cats 

and books and paintings 

and poetry 

she knew that this 

was what she wanted 

when she woke in 

the morning 

after brushing her hair 

and feeding her cats 

she would put on her shoes 

roll down her socks 

grab her pen and notebook 

and walk down to 

the café 

she felt a warm feeling 

of home 

not at home 

but within 

herself 

(L. K. Thayer)