(R.I.P. Sleaze Manor.)
Count the muses scattered on the floor
and taped to the peeling walls–
a bottle or twelve
(with no messages rolled up inside,
for nosy roommates to innocently come across).
Snapshots of friends lost to time
and unreliable phonebooks
(they all got my number,
if you know what I mean,
but I’m a lousy secretary
and an even worse pen pal).
But the pictures do the trick just fine:
memories are monotonous
and elusive in their omnipresence,
but pictures are worth a thousand
“hey, how ya been”s.