handfuls of air

She is the girl of rounded corners,

rubber floors and padded bars,

the keeper of a thousand rooms,

a thousand shades of comfort.

Her golden voice reverberates

off curving white acrylic walls

in an edgeless bathroom,

warm water gurgling out of spouts

the shape of animal mouths

open wide to the world.

No fear, open wide.

She is the morning sun shining

through the windows of a playroom,

toys spread across the carpet, time paused.

She is an indoor playplace,

tunnels twisting into clear darkness,

walls of nets and swinging ropes

and slides descending

into pools of plastic balls.

She is a store of endless aisles

of fog and multicolored lights

and toys from floor to ceiling.

She is the comfy restaurant smell

of salt and sugar overflowing,

world of abundance unquestioned.

She is the glow of Christmas lights

on a manicured lawn at night,

a thousand stars shining down.

She is the chest burning hot

with precious memories rekindled.

She is a maze of faux rooms

in a furniture store,

layers of curtain-walls and bowls

of ageless plastic fruit.

She is an empty office above the mall,

sunset slanting through the blinds

and headlights glistening

on the highway far below

and the scent of warm carpet,

printer dust and analog optimism,

the weight of the world hovering

forever at a safe distance.