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.