No amount of trying can make this place a home.
An apartment with blank walls, bare halls.
Alabaster from top to bottom,
furnished with desks and dressers
to match the screen of the dead television.
A bed,
gray as a suffering sky
about to burst at the seams
crying out “Mother,
where have you gone?
Why are you not here with me?”
Only to hear no response, and,
quieted for the time,
returns to the color that everyone
who’s never seen an ocean
imagines them to be.