Harsh lights gritty sidewalks, squeaking grating doorways, Metal glass chrome doors, decals pealing and maybe a bell, Hard to remember where I left those cut-up dreams. I let one go the other day, just a crumple and a toss and a "So what now?" There’s another one around the corner, right? Dim-lit yellow hallways, bathroom down the hall, Shredded carpet, bruised and dirty, Don’t even think about the paint. A single cot, thin mattress, square table made with wood, That single bulb hanging on to a cord. There in the corner, I saw the crumpled might-have-been. Missed the rusted basket; poor shot. I walked out with it, of course I should have left it there along with the rest of the picture. Instead I spread it out on an ironing board, Ink worn through and faded, edges broken and frayed, But maybe it could have been salvaged. I think I see a painted house, light green, and a stoop. There’s a bay window, I remember now, pink reflected in the window pane,
