May my room be safe from tigers.
Inmates run the institution, but leave me in peace.
Central Park on a wet fall day
Hangs above my left shoulder
The walk deserted but expectant.
A baby gorilla nuzzling its mothers brow,
Sits among leafy green vines in a calendar
Below the black and white photo of the Poet’s Walk.
A whale-like creature dives deep,
The water darkens as it descends.
A suggestion of light appears toward the apex of the canvas.
On the adjoining wall a painting
Bursting with energetic reds and oranges.
On another wall
Sketches of my Dad and my Dalmatian, Homer.
Both long gone
My memories of both are warm.
Shelves filled with binders, manuals, and family photos
Sit above my desk, just beyond the requisite computer.
Does all this attest to my life?
Or are all the trappings merely fictionalized cinema of self congratulatory impulses,
Or are both one?
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