The first few days I sat, clicked-on-and-off
the holo lens,
and stared at the ticker
on the short wall
opposite the door,
which was adjusted
to countdown the seconds
of my sentence in Earth time.
You appeared and disappeared;
a lovely apparition,
an intermittent phantom of delight
flickering with the draining battery.
It was a day at a Summer
Michigan lake beach,
of frolicking bare feet
splashing muddled foam,
and running dogs,
and a wedding at a distance.
Dancing shapes carried slices
of watermelon under the Sun,
and sandpipers pecked
by a trash can.
Sometimes I shed tears
in sadness,
that would be unexpectedly mixed
with the transient sorrows
of hunger and lack of sleep.
Now, I see with eye serene
the pulse of the machine
as it struggles to flash
the empty charge warning.
Your image nobly travels
to the place of ghosts.