Holding your hand on the train this morning,

Nodding in unison

At the misery of a slow commute,

I was stroking your thumb

And remembered something about a dollhouse

I had seen photos of as a girl

At the Brooklyn Library.

I was proud of having found something small

In such a large grown up building.

This dollhouse was a place where I could fit.

This library,

a place where I could grow.

It was completely quiet

And I stood on my knees

On one of those ancient wooden benches,

Tucked in along the aisles of the second floor

I rested the book on a thick iron grate

In front of a large window,

And the smell of the pages

The green and white cards at the back

Became to me

like a religion.

-ZG

9:28 AM