She danced by herself most nights,
that is all you could do with this kind of solitary confinement,
Her mother had implored her to be social,
she taught her the inner workings of the unfortunate existence of Emily Dickinson,
trouble is,
she never believed Ms. Dickinson's life to be anything but splendid,
upstairs,
with no one to bother her,
with no one to run the clock,
save for the Sun and the Moon,
and she was there to patrol,
to make sure never the two would meet,
not too shabby,
window watching,
then window washing,
and in her obituary,
pre-written of course,
she counted,
among her closest friends,
Bing Crosby and Bix Beiderbecke,
She knew this would ignite pity at first,
most people who showed up to recall her short lived life would no doubt chatter,
they would think this rather pathetic,
but inside her little box, she could sleep with confidence,
knowing the joke was on them,
and the mills would stay rampant as words would have it,
day in and day out,
full of the twentieth century's greatest and most tangible sin,
the gossip
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