Two Frames

In the orange room of reckoning I am stain-shaped
like the wide window, my frame seabound or splinters or worse.
What separates my opening to the ocean is gone.
I cannot afford fancy reflection or new pain.
My black packed garbage bags are full
and sleepless nights stacked like bricks
betray my eyes beneath beauty’s peeling plaster.
But a little further in my soul the wind sings
the fringe of palm leaves, the lashes of my land
and other songs you’ve been untrained to hear.
Only in spirit now. I’m stranded where I belong
while you make a vacation of my exile.
Go on, smile and spend your money.
You take your pictures and I’ll take mine.