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Returning home
I glance paranoically at my bed
again (as always) fearing to find a dead body
under the covers
I wonder why?
I hang up my jacket
and cross to the window
Looking toward the waning sun
holding my left palm out
I catch the last few rays
Then the lines in my palm disappear
with the sunlight
it is dusk
Slowly the city lights wink on
A clock chimes six times
Angels of Death fly over
Conversations everywhere pause
to listen for wingbeats close by
to my mind comes
a woman from my past
her breasts, two generous scoops of alabaster ice cream
I wished hungrily to devour
Yet she was not my type
I took her to an expensive restaurant
and under cover of the white tablecloth
she played with my crotch with her foot
I took her them to a cheap motel
and there we had sex--
you might say it was done with mirrors
But suddenly, as we lay recovering
a squad of policemen broke in
and attacked us with flyswatters
Or did I just dream that part?
Or did I just dream it all?
Was it just the stuff of which read-only memory is made?
And what happens when you can't tell the difference between dreams and
reality?
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