Its a fine line I walk, this existance

a tightrope stretched tauntly

between the safe ledge of sanity

and complete mind-imploding,

being-absorbing madness

I feel insignifigant at once

and then carrying the weight of the world...

like life would cease to exist were I not here to make oatmeal every morning

for a split second I question the human race

that inhabits my house

and their dependence on oatmeal

and then in a heartbeat the thought is gone

and the laundry's done.

As I fold, I dream of my hypothetical life

as an artist

a ballerina

an athlete

a philospopher

a poet

a composer
a professor of the ways And then he squeals "mama!"

as though I alone can bring comfortand justice in his world

Tiny me-

still pajama'd at noon and messy haired

the maker of dinner

the cleaner of floors

the queen of his world

I'm grounded

I'm humbled

I'm happy to be a tophat

in the monopoly of life.