I, the mad genius,
quiet in person,
loud in my mind
with fantastic ideas flowing
of places I’ve never
been,
could never be.
Quiet afternoons spent
in a pastel doll house,
climbing hand-carved stairs
to decorative living rooms
where fragile bookcases stand
with little wooden books
whose red felt covers
are tattered and worn.
And on a desk
in that artificial existence,
I live in a castle
beneath the deep water
of a ten gallon fish tank;
Swimming with fat orange
fish,
pushing pebbles
across the algae infested
bottom,
playing with air bubbles,
then swimming fast
to avoid the filter.
Or flying out
through the absent glass
of an open window,
into the daylight
of my bedroom.