Sculpture Garden
She gets up every morning usually before the alarm
She is just that way
Always anxious, her mind won’t let her rest for very long.
She makes her way downstairs
Shirt in hand, zippering her pants,
Socks in the dryer.
Shoes around somewhere.
She looks out the window at the yard
At the perfect spot where a sculpture belongs
She imagines it for a moment
An alter ego, calming and exciting
Simultaneously
A fleeting image of marble dust and hammer and chisel.
Or wood chips and sawdust.
She turns away, muttering
Wondering if she can find an artist
To execute her vision.
Just Susan 