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.
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.