The Dream

There are the days when the dream is no longer a dream, but a real thing with fur huddled underneath a hose pot. And your nose is so close to it, you can breath in the scared chipmunk scent. And it pushes that button in your brain that says, “THIS!” And your blood goes fast. And your tail flails and waves, no longer your appendage quite, but some electric thing that whirs behind you with erratic, indecent fancy.

My focus is never so clear.

The hungry, liquid mouth. The rain falling on my coat. The cool, gray bricks under my feet.