Three Dreams, October 1997

Three Dreams, October 1997

I.

You watch young Andy spit out marbles

clacking onto green tile as the bath fills

still, though the heat has long since drowned.

II.

The driveway to the dilapidated party house

stretches, so you strip yourself of shoes,

holes in the nylons you wore that night,

that night in the car, home coming

they hand you whisky as the rain falls,

it fogs the windows, obscures the hands.

III.

You knock on the withered door, familiar

old men gather, they smile stained teeth,

you’re looking for the ones most stained,

they flash from by the fireplace, flicking ash

he sits in a wheelchair, blanket poppy red

around his lower half, black lab at his feet,

his sweating eyes tell you you are sick,

a beautiful gift from God, perpetually,

methodically starving here, in sleep.