when you wake and you open
wide the door to gasp in humid air,
remembering last night's dream where you
bounced gently in the sea while an old car
bobbed alongside you, unsinking.
The rain holds you heavy and you
aim for a four-minute shower but still
miss your train. The people hold the backs
of their hands to their mouths and yawn.
The air hangs like a humid curtain
between them and you.
In the evening you walk your dog. You are
weary of death. You avert your eyes from the
shape in the gutter that could once have been a
kitten. Your heart pushes it downward to compost
in the dark characters for tonight's dreamscape,
trying to make sense of senselessness.
The clouds are grey with maybe rain. You
wonder idly how many bodies lie under your
suburban feet from millennia gone before.
The walk is jerky post-rain stops and starts,
smells from dank soil dizzying up the dog's nose,
the heady smell of everything that's gone before.
Pic: Cafemama
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