After Ash Wednesday

The A/C sounds like rain, or so I’m told.
This building is too big to hear the sky’s
emissions land like throws from Mardi Gras
onto the roof, the sidewalk, or the road.
I hope to get outside before I’m old
although I can’t be sure — how old am I?
How long have I been here? I must try
to pry into my memory of before
this inside time, when I could see the sun
on clear days, other days see clouds:
the time of Festival, promises made,
if not of glory, then of change to come.
But now, after Ash Wednesday, all I’ve found
is an ash-sounding noise in a fan’s blade.