Where Do I Live Again?!

I walked briskly to the corner of the the road,
looked around, and felt lost.
"Where do I live again?!" I thought to myself.
No blue trees, asteroid rock or Starbucks across the street.
When I had driven to Beautyland
that morning at seven AM to my crashpad,
it was pitch black out and I could barely find it.
When my new roommate let me in all I could think was,
"Martha Stewart DOES live here!"
I tried not to gape at the cathedral ceilings
and wall to wall antiques.
She was leaving for work and waved her hands around
in the air and said, "The kitchen's there
and dining room and I'll show you your room."
I kicked off my shoes and sank into the rug
and followed her up the quarter mile long staircase
thinking, "Oh yeah, I could get used to this..."
My room was on the front of the house
and she handed me a key and said,
"Make yourself at home girly-girl,
I'll see you at work."
So I did and couldn't help but compare
Beauty house to other crashpads I'd had.
The funky crashpad my buddybidder
Theresa and I had had in Greeley in 1989
or the pretty pantyhose jungle crashpad
I had in Diamond Head in 1988
with seven other flight attendants.
Carol left and I opened my wall-long closet
French doors and stared at the built in shelves
and thought, "What? No closet pole?"