The Anthills of Babylon

Packing up the memories of Mother

I see clearly

the wheels of our little civilizations

the vagaries of art erected on walls

the baubles of selves prostrate upon shelves

the bricks and tiles of keepsakes

the mortar made of countless objects and,

the zigarnauts of our journaling and books.

Packing up the memories of Mother

I see clearly

the popcorn flow of our little lives

the rolling of dung balls and refuse

the laborious moving boulder grains of sand

in our carving the eclectic cathedrals and tunnels

of our rollercoaster merry-go-round

in these, our incandescent flickering, neon lights of Time.

(18 February '18)