dreamscape I;

Two, maybe three-hundred people,

not sure what they’re here for.

A gay wedding, maybe?

The relatives, all there in their ties and dresses, 

teachers sitting like High Sierra suitcases;

the fillers, all filed out and filled in.

­

The dog’s crushed a mouse between

its teeth—a snarled rage. It scurries away.

A young boy has found empty jars of jam, 

breaking them to pieces in the lounge.

I’m finding it difficult to speak coherently.

I keep apologizing.

­

Sounds like I’m drunk again, or having a stroke—

I’m a better drunk than this, and have never

had a stroke.

I have no pants on.  I’m trying to find my jeans,

or black slacks, something, but I keep getting 

distracted. Guests keep saying, “hello, it’s

been a while.”  I know this, I should’ve called.

­

Hello auntie, hello cousin, hello grade school

teacher, and hello nameless faces, can’t chat,

I’m on a hunt to find my pants.

Worried about my voice and the tightness in my

jaw, like clamps sinewing my gums. 

Retracing my steps from point of origin: started

­

on a double, no triple California King. I had just

awakened from another dream, from a helicopter

and a city hall in the clouds, the mayor 

announcing from tall steel speakers.  That was

the dream, no?  My issue must be initial drag! 

Yes, slowness from coming out of a secondary 

state.  That’s it!

­

But no one got married. 

I never found my pants.

My voice was housed within the mouse.

And no one ever left.

Except me, to awake, again.

And they had all been there for me.