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They wouldn’t tell you if

You ask them,

The people who live in

Houses made of circles,

About the little square room on the landing

The little room, neither upstairs nor downstairs

With its sudden white walls

Obscenely bright

The little room and its single mattress

Meant for monkish bareness

Or quick guilt-ridden sex

The little room, deceptive

In its ordinary grime on the wall

Deceptive because

There are no shadows hiding monsters

The room where little girls

Dont go after dark anyway

But find their nightmares

In the light of the day

 

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