Between The Lines
You won’t find anything in this room to tell you who I am.
There’s nothing much in my wallet—a few receipts for groceries,
some small change and a library card (haven’t used that since the dispute
with my neighbour, the librarian).
Nothing in the dresser drawers will give me away—
the sort of junk no one knows what to do with—
pens, buttons … scraps of paper … strands of yarn (never did
get the hang of knitting.)
The closet isn’t crammed; it’s tidy and spare with
a care-free, casual wardrobe (half was culled for charity
just last week.)
The room itself, won’t tell you what you want to know—
there are no bright colours on the wall—
no popping fabrics or polished furniture
(just a few pictures of animals in the yard).
Type-A, it boasts in its neat-as-a-pin appearance
(trying to live down the snide, “she never made her bed”).
If you really want to know who it is you’re dealing with,
read between the pages of the books, stacked on the table
on her side (she picks them up at random).
Flip through the stashed notepads in zipped purse-pockets,
or small drawers within reach of the pillows (along with the
Tiger Balm and pristine prayer-cards).
Read between the lines.
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