Crypt in April Flowers

The elephant that sat on my dash last week now sits on my computer at work. Mortimer. I wonder how he feels having death in his letters. Mortuary, mortician, rigor mortis, Morton salt. Salt removes wine stains, soothes sore throats, rubs out rust. Another obstacle gone, Ganesh-man. Mortimer seems content. His trunk looks healthy. Like the lovers on the Grecian urn he stands mid-stride.

The orange man from the basement, with his walkie-talkie and military cut, still stalks me. The bathrooms still are not clean.

Garish in an olive corduroy jacket splashed and smattered in orange red, watermelon, and green apple flowers, turquoise leaves, I am fire among medical professionals and malfunctioning copy machines. Spring and fall smashed into me.

It might be the claustrophobic office closing the train in on one short track. Back forth back forth. Hum. It might be the ghost inside, mellowing the rhythm in the garden. A quieting for a gathering. I'm not feeling loquacious today.