I pretend I live in a treehouse
perhaps an interesting practice for someone in my age bracket
more than a bit over forty and most of my type don’t 
dwell in a second story situation like this
and sometimes, well sometimes that fact gets me down
shouldn’t I have something like the lovely lavender cottage I frequently pass
or one of the other scenarios I allow to meander through my mind
should I regret the circumstances which brought me here
or delight in the present
the second I tell myself because why not be positive
I hear kids chattering and arguing and playing and the voices of their adults overriding 
I see, out my window, the replacement flowers I planted on Saturday
I imagine, the next place and then I wonder when
but I refrain
why would I want to be ordinary
a person without a staircase