Where?

She was a writer through and through,

A mental mashup of "moody" and "hopeless".

Forget "grandeur" - to her, the stories were true

She peppered reality with morals and plot twists.

Somehow it was always location that held her back,

As if rural breaths of air lassoed away creative thought.

That certain hustle-bustle feel home lacked,

It only felt natural to try and connect the dots.

"The city," she'd dreamed of answering when asked about home,

Which sounds damn ominous, if you ask me.

Her eyes seared through mountains as she envisioned Rome,

No recognition of those who lived down the street.

Like country folk do, her neighbors talked.

Thought of her as quiet: "Nothin' to say."

If anything, she'd mastered that quick city walk

And when they waved, she'd hurry to look away.

That first dawn in New York was a bust

Street meter stole her coins, so she fought it.

The tourists' widened eyes when she fussed,

"How can I write when it's so friggin' chaotic?"

She was a writer through and through,

Three pen-clicks away from the perfect word

Lighting up a smoke and kicking off her shoes,

Her mind entertained thoughts of the suburbs.