Memory, the interior decorator,
works in myriad styles, appeals
to all the senses, borrows from
everyone everywhere, or should
it be called stealing, for memory
recognizes no property rights
is no simple keeper of the books
but a capricious potentate with
purposes of its own including
rewriting of the history it tells
over and over again, so I fall
asleep one place and wake another,
whether it be tent, castle, mud hut
or even prison, without my knowing
the charge or having a chance to plead
(who can plead against his memory?}
Memory, the interior decorator,
keeps busy plundering my life
in order to furnish me differently
than I could ever have imagined