The Writing Room

Somewhere on Central Park West
I just want people to let me into their houses so I can look around. I want to see what their stuff looks like inside. I don’t have to touch anything. I just want to look.
I want to see if they have the good taste I hope they have. I want to see if their furniture is as fabulous as I want it to be. And I want it to be, so I can tell them so. So that when they die, their wills will read, “To that lovely girl who took the time to enter my life if only for ten minutes, I leave my entire dust-free, perfectly appointed apartment and its flawless contents.”
It is in this patina’d window alcove that I will write my fifth volume of intentionally bad poetry that receives worldwide critical acclaim. In this window where I will drink iced coffee upon iced coffee, with a nice chocolate-dipped biscotti on a very pretty plate. It is from this window that I will watch a girl on the sidewalk below looking up and wishing she had the nerve to ring the bell and ask if she could just come in for ten minutes so she can see if I have good taste. She won’t want to touch anything. She’ll just be curious, is all.
It is from this window that I will flick crumbs that land atop her unsuspecting head, and softly cackle.