A Vase Called Memory
Somewhere
in the oversized jail cell of my mind
something is pinging.
A fly
alights on the windowsill
among the carcasses of its brethren.
Someone
is working overtime
in the blue light of a computer.
A mural
is etched into the kind concrete
underneath the bed.
Somehow
the neighbor has acquired playing cards
and is slapping them on the floor.
And
in the corner
a vase is collecting raindrops.