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