I’ve got nothing to do but spin
For you, explain this life
Journey I’m thumbing through.
They take my pen I’ll scratch in the dust
On the buildings and car windows
If I really must. If they take my food
And fork and spoon—well I fuel this fire
With wood, not food.
With authentic giggles and hand-washed
Laundry and the line at the bus stop and
Rainy day hammocking
And the sweat on my brow meeting
The rush of the lake and the dance
Of the squirrels on the leaves which shake—
These are things they can never take.
These are things they can never fake.
These are the things that I want to create
So I swing here
And spin for you.

The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.