She would love to vacuum up
  all the light
from the forever clean sun
and shine it out
into all those    
  hollow places
littered with not good enoughs, belligerent back slaps,
held tight in a corner,
against the ropes
boxing The Hand of Stone.

She would love to
pull the violet sheets of the full moon off and gracefully flit them across the violent whispers of her nail ridden bed hoping to take sharp points out completely.

She could learn to reanimate junkyard cartoons hiding in the dusty hallways of humour.

She could steal garden web gardenias and spiral them into a hidden window that hasn't felt a soft shine hit in two decades.

She could dance around the rim of sunrise and sunset
soaking in the sonorous orbits of smiles' melody.

After that she would soak her aching feet in warm Epson Salt water, glass of wine in hand, not having to think about cleaning hotel rooms.