Money is pink.
Your portrait is gray.
Buy a memoir
and paste it on the elevator walls,
a steel prison for your print—
an inorganic coffin.

(Unlike you
it will not be buried six feet below,
instead it will rise
rise rise
and be torn away
to be replaced.)

Without the glass
you are so light.
you are just wood
mocha colored
coffee flavored
hand-picked five years ago
screws loose.

You are so easy to break.
I could burn you
and toss you off the cliff
to the point of no salvation
and I could also
kiss you goodnight
lift you
caress you.

You are so easy to corrupt.
Without you,
though,
I don’t know what else I would have to remember.