I call it moving upstairs.

There’s a widow’s watch on top of an old yellow house

And I go there to think.

It’s full of squashy cushions

And there’s always a hot cup of tea sitting on the windowsill.

If I were the sort of person who liked cats,

There would be a cat there as well.

 

None of it’s real.

At least,

Not in the way you think of real.

 

Maybe it isn’t a widow’s watch at all.

Maybe it’s a cabin in a pine forest

With lupines growing all around it.

It has only one story,

But when I go there,

I’m moving upstairs.

 

I find someplace I’ve never been

And I settle in to think the kind of thoughts you can’t have

Downstairs, in everyday life.

When I’m upstairs,

Safe in my head,

There’s peace,

There’s quiet,

There’s space!

I can figure it out,

Or if I can’t,

I can, at least, enjoy the view.