not exactly wonderland
second apartment, a
rocky, rebound relationship—
left the beat of the city
to the middle-of-nowhere-special.
our eat-me sized furniture
loomed over drink-me sized spaces.
narrow strip of carpeted
kitchen invited takeout delivery.
shackled to the second
bedroom—my office
prison
for scholarly pursuits—
with ample room for self-doubt.
three children and a baby
below served as regular alarm clock.
yard bug zapper droned
throughout suburban summer nights.
the only reprieves from
steady silence of study and stress.
long island isolation—
living three disparate identities.
with husband often working,
the drink-me sized second-floor apartment
seemed super-size-me large
that first, endless year of grad school.
at least there was cable.
