While some echo locate, some use GPS,
And some they, climb Matterhorn,
A difficult mountain to climb, while others walk in a beach
Each a homogenous grain of silica,
And some, they rest inside a un-crowded room,
That has no doors, to go outside, only a room
With a window, to see bats, cars, mountaineers,
And the beach walkers, as this woman wonders,
As she looks inside her inner sanctum,
Where saturated, lives, a strain of contentment.
How solitude, is just as much a democracy,
As a dueling body, how some beds are like
The Atacama Dessert, so dry, that nothing needs
To grow, to change the ambient landscape,
How a woman needs no corporeal missions,
Or the styles of canines, only a computer on her desk
And the street clutter she sees, walking
Everywhere, how its all a human waste dump.
How one woman will never be embellished
By a sign reading NIMBY, not in my backyard.
A woman who will never know,
The power of the human embrace, how she,
Will never have a wet dream in her life, open lips
That only know KFC, the finger licking goodness,
While she dreams of getting ahead,
In the rat race, pencil skirt on, without seeing the beauty,
Of letting her skirt slip down to her ankles,
To let the sun rise between her thighs,
While letting, the sewer rat, in.