‘the morning after’
the morning after, bleary eyed
and tasting bitter, pondering the dream
that seemed so real there it was
in the kitchen. the brick. glass shards
like spilled salt. the christmas cactus
broken in the sink. a cool breeze
carrying the smell of rain. hand-sewn curtains
hung up on jagged edges. thick, old
and crumbling, pulled from under a tarp
in a backyard or a construction site
or dug up in the dark, an unsuspecting patio now
a mangled, muddy checkerboard.
reddish, a little chalky. good heft. imagine
the arc it might make in the rain. the library,
the QFC, Kay’s corner bar, the Papa John’s
and hardware store all made of the same.
brick on brick. now here in the kitchen.
blankly staring back. in the middle of the fever
dream were many muted voices. desperate cries for
help not quite discernible. as if in a locked room
or in the middle of a river or just under the rush
of a passing semi. a dream within a dream.
and now the brick. and the sounds outside