picking up

.
I see homeless shelters overflowing, people camp nearby for life not a summer trip, and I realize this little job I have typing for studios is what keeps me in my little room. I'm isolated from both bad and good, my room is even hidden from the road, a secret part of the inn, with privacy and a view of thick sierra forest and tahoe blue skies, through a very grimy unreachable window. If i was among the campers, I'd be less lonely, and less safe. I think I have to be grateful for what I've got, as slippery as it is, and hold on tight.