Tuesday, July 31, 2012

Simple Dream

There was no reason given for a Wednesday.

Ordinary, said the host.
"What are those sounds?"
"Normal," said the man at the door
on his way out,
"Please, go in, wake up, make coffee,
your thoughts will fill you in."

Down the hallway I reached a breech
wet and musky below my feet,
the air had stalled
a pinkish blue of light in the kitchen
stopped me at the carpet's edge—

There it was.

Strewn about the kitchen floor
like a cheap piece of furniture
or a barn door lock and key
broken into several large pieces
in the middle of the floor
except the backbone
which stretched out towards the door
leading to the backyard weeds.

I stood upon the precipice of hallway/kitchen
staring down in recollection
broken into pieces upon the floor—
at long yeared compilation.

I thought at first that some hired handy man
had been in the house through the night
dismantling the dream
with carpenters' tools
twisting the screws with determination
banging apart the center of it with
a large claw—framing hammer
why did I not hear the sound in the night?
why didn't someone wake me?

Old two by fours and pieces of tin
bent pipes of cheap steal and
hinges that no longer hinged—
the delicate pastel paper
unable to blow the flag of victory
It was all there,
the bare spots of wood visible
where the joints had come undone
The little clumps of dirt and leaves
where the dream had sat next
to the trailer for years
until I loaded her and drove her down the highways
declaring her virtue to anyone who would listen.

"What is it?" most would say.
"Can't you see it?" I would reply,
"It's a dream! My dream! And I'm taking
it on the road, and it is a damn fine dream…"

"Who would haul a dream in a pick-up truck?"
the townsfolk would say, "it looks like
some sad monster," a teenager once said.
"Oh, you will see, I said, once I get her working,
you've never seen such a dream as this…"

The thoughts wanted to slap at me,
as I gently reached down—touching
the one brick that held it all together,
there on the kitchen floor.
A Wednesday morning—ordinary—
no fools, no geniuses, no soldiers,
no carpenters or people who produce delicate
things—made rough— were waiting
in the wings of the other rooms—
just the cool sound of the air conditioner
that suddenly came on
causing one of the boards to tumble further—

And me, standing at the edge,
staring down at my dream like a fold.

R.Shurtz 2012

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