Echoes of laughter come to me
From deep within the chambers of my ship
Where are the voices coming from-
I was alone at the start of my trip.

Are they real or imagined?

Faces appear and disappear
None I recognize as being mine.
They are always watching when I sleep, when I bathe, when I work, when I dine-
All of the time.

Are they real or imagined?

If two years in space have weakened me
What can I expect from the next three?
I can sustain my life, I know
But can I sustain my former reality?

I want to believe it is happening,
and not just a holo-image of my brain.
The visitors are more frequent now-
I’ve made a breakthrough to a higher plane.

Are they real or imagined?
Am I real or imagined?

Ceiling, fans turn.

Wall, clock ticks.

Floor, machines rotate, washing.

Words honed with love
can pierce the armor
of the heart.

No other weapon wields
such power.

The warehouse of my mind is empty.

Muted blues, like a Miles Davis groove,
begin to fill the dusky expanse.
Deep purples, plums and cherries,
a hint of vermilion,
all flow down onto the floor of my consciousness.

The colors, each separated by a thin black border,
swirl and drain into a wormhole in the floor.

My consciousness follows.

I enter a place filled with bicycles, skateboards,
fireflies, honeysuckle vines, super heroes and pets.

Scenery flashes by in rapid-fire succession like trees
on the side of the side of the road when I was a little
kid, with my head hanging out of the car window
until my mom yelled at me to put my head back in
the car where it belonged.

My dad's look, the look
he gives me when I say or do
something particularly dumb,
usually when helping him work
on the car, and I hand him the wrong wrench.

His steel-blue eyes fix on me and
try to penetrate the fog within me,
searching for the place that will
confirm the obvious:

I must have been switched at birth.

Quarters
for the washer
  for the soap
   for the games
    for the dryer
     for the dryer sheets
      for the bags
This place runs on quarters.

I'm surprised that the ceiling fans and the lights aren't coin operated
But then again,

I suppose they are.

Burgundy, white, black, blue; all in a line.

SUV, 4-door, hatchback, minivan; waiting.

The sun beats down, the air blasts inside,
The calm before the storm-the building pregnant.

Suddenly they come. The students emerge from the womb
Into the outside world. We wait no more.

We pickup our little ones and take them home to be cherished.