Crouching Woman

Who at one point in time crouched over miniatures,

On a shag rug that stood in for grass,

Playing out life, story after implausible story;

Now only the size of things has changed

So you can no longer hold the plot pieces in your hands.

Somewhere along the yarn you became the villain and the deliverer

With only a shower curtain between the two, or so it feels

Because of how vulnerable a footloose imagination can be,
Crouched in flesh over your own limbs, standing in for toys,

Making memoir with much greater consequence.