Chanting mantras on the way home
 from whatever useless and monotone activity
 which occupies our day this time.
  I reach for my keys, but the door is already open.

I spy tender skin and soft eyes. I spy, I spy.
The back of a neck, all golden curls and pale
composition. Until she opens her eyes,
 and I spy no more.

Her name is Goldilocks and she came into my house,
ate my porridge, sat on my chair, slept on my bed,
then complained about it!
And I cherished her smile while I listened
to her passionate tales about invasion of private property.