By Eloise Bruce
Dreaming within these walls all night,
we woke with both eyes open,
barely winking at the morning light.
We shower and sing with the long-legged fly.
Queen Maeve keeps time in the attic,
and the pig-keepers roar in the toy box below stairs.
Turn out the lamp whose fringe rhymes with orange.
Our words wait in sun-melted butter.
We’ll eat our troubles with bubbling metaphor,
punctuate the teapot with boiling time,
hang the wash out on the line.
Today, we’ll scrub and paint the walls
using colors we don’t yet recognize.
The key in the door shines.
Come in. The poem is just here. Come inside.