Mental Storage

I keep my dreams in Tupperware,

color coded,

like more organized people do

with less intriguing things.

Nonsense, like leftover crumbles

of some forgotten

but once pleasant dessert,

carefully crafted in the kitchen,

wonderfully without nutrition,

I keep in the pink tins

to dry out

and crumble further.

Green containers hold

the more substantial

and savory memories;

old ambitions, like deli meats,

are more often revisited,

cold and floppy,

damp,

reheatable with cheese.

Visions, like those of Joan,

and assorted religious syndromes

demanding action in the waking world,

are contained in yellow rimmed plastic,

and hidden in the back of the fridge

until they fade

into the sanity of nothingness,

or start to smell.