too many memories crowd into the room tonight.

One wants to lie across the entire length
of the bed. Another is angry as ever, punching

a hole in the wall and taking out a length of pipe,
rust blooming along its waistline. Consequently,

when a few of them take the first hot shower
they’ve had in years, the water starts leaking

to the floor. I know I shouldn’t feed them:
not a piece of toast, not even a drink of water.

But already they’ve found the cabinet with
the bottles of Merlot and Vinho Verde, the stash

of leftover Christmas cookies. I push the window
open and heave a sigh. There’s a moon shaped

like a hammock in the sky. In the air, a metallic
tang. And more than a few hours left till morning.

In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.