Walls like roasted peppers
and the inside of my womb
scattered with bits
and scraps of childhood
and friends
and costumes.
Futon unfurled
And instruments
everywhere
the instruments of your anger and your love
and rebellion and
joy.
But uninhabited in this crisis.
So I crawl into the
cocoon of this womb
to tend to the suffering
peering outside as no cars pass by.