The glare of a watch.
The folly of a shadow.
The puppeteer performing plays in her head.
The running of fictional red lights…that wreck havoc at the end of the bed.
It is the constant stare from the end of the hall.
It is the down time when the voices play, are frivolous, and small…
a four-legged domestic stranger who refuses to heed to a call.
By unknown circumstance, she above all…
mimics the dance at the end of a forever bouncing ball.