i've started to set up
my little personal altars
here and there
(it's kind of funny
how things
accumulate.)
tattered photographs
bits of string
smoky candles
shards of glass
these things i
contemplate
that's my duty
in the place
and i won't
forsake my duties.

musty fog
feels the granite walls
and i breathe it in
sitting by the fireplace
which gives no warmth
sipping bitter rationed tea
and one beam
of unreachable sunlight
seeps from a
tiny window.
i see your eyes
in little patterns on the walls
and i know it can't be
but may be
you're here
speaking through
the crackle of the fire.

we all have
out personal hells
and i know by now
that this trailer park
of gaslit granite rooms
is mine.
but i visit so often
i'm used to it now.