Author's Note: In case I ever mistakenly thought I knew anything about women, here's a poem that proves otherwise. It emerged from a dream about a woman, and, maybe, her dream about me. Who knows? And who knows about women? Not Freud; not me. Incidentally, it's also a Christmas poem. For other poems about other apprehensions and misapprehensions, visit alanwalowitz.com.
Your Dream and Mine
I’d gathered the groceries in my trunk and hauled them north,
despite the foreignness of the terrain
and fear of wandering so far beyond my circumstance.
How tragic they were, all melting apace,
those frozen foods and delicacies,
country terrine, fine foie gras,
cheeses that would be refrigerated
in a more contemplative time.
But not now, not here, and not
in the tumult of your dream,
where you told me you could be
anything you damn well please,
even a bride, though you knew
this news I could not abide.
As if I’d know what to do
to unhamlet myself, as the clock ticked down
and in the face of such oblivion—
a dream that might have been of such use,
to clarify, ameliorate, to rectify,
but ending again with your yawn
and my calm acceptance of the same.
You’re always too busy to write—
which I assure you is all I want.
But why, then, bring me here so far from home,
only to leave me cemented in my shoes,
as you show me the door—
lined with blue lights for the holidays,
causing such sighing in passersby
so I can hardly breathe in the dark,
the oxygen depleted,
my nose pressed against the sidelight,
and then all this futile scratching at your door?
originally appeared in Rat’s Ass Review
© 2018 Alan Walowitz
Editor's Note: If this poem(s) moves you please consider writing to the author (email address above) to tell him or her. You might say what it is about the poem that moves you. Writing to the author is the beginning of community at Verse Virtual. It is very important. -FF