"i saw it filled with roses and butterflies"
 the poet wrote
 while sitting on the patio of her suburban ranch
 looking out over her garden

 she writes laments over her favorite
 coffee cup/ the ridge chipped/ handle now broken
 and she worries/ if coffee drinking
 will ever be the same again

 she documents the lines on her face
 watching as they intersect
 and deepen/ each day noticing a new line
 writing panic poetic introspective
 on her aging face

 she notices/ the sweet texture of chocolate
 adhering to her fingers
 and she write of its finite
 yet/ necessary existence

 and i
 a poet myself/ read
 her verses of polished and tainted metaphors
 and wonder what life is like in a suburban ranch
 locked behind high fences and security systems
 while i live in the world of shots in the dark
 and freshly freed convicts living
 next door and down the street
 turning my street corner into a cell block

 i don't have time for a favorite coffee cup
 and the lines of time on my face are welcomed
 there is no preference of gourmet assorted chocolates

 but/ i do have dreams
 of fields filled with roses and butterflies