flapping butterfly wings inside the wardrobe with the skeletons

fireflies circle the bulb

a low wattage casts small shadows over this thing
                         over this everything
of empty petrol station forecourts

wastelands of concrete where shoes hang from telegraph wires
and of all the stereotypes I know
  how many of them are true?

she frantically searches the book shelves for the answers and writes angry letters to the council about the lack of WI-FI at the local library

she sits on the roof to get a better view of the constellations which she can’t see from down here