My striped socks limp
under my heels, testament
to my tin ear for style.
I don’t dress for other people
I punctuate with my eyes,
my voice public, piqued,
defiant, filling my sanctuary
of curtained darkness.

When I was hooked
on eternal life,
the Sunday School kept me
on the prayer list.
Mostly I slept
until noon, reading
late into the night before,
tapping my feet to the polkas
played by the world’s
accordion champs.
My conversion was unnoticed,
marked with the art
of placidity, comfort of stretch
pants worn all week, no brush
through my hair.
The door separates me
from giving a damn.

Outside the sun blinds
squinting people
fat with purpose, their heels
tripping on concrete,
their hands hailing cabs.
Inside I turn on the lamps,
skip the chore
of opening curtains,
pleased with the metal
locks that keep
me in the dark.