From Living in the Past
By Philip Schultz
I dreamed my sons disappeared. We were watching
Peter Pan and I looked around like a blind man.
I awoke and peered into the darkness of my hands,
which have always belonged to someone more dour.
My sons were in the next room, asleep, but I had to
contend with the prospect of life with these hands,
and an entirely new order of things.
In the dream my milk curdles and I float
within the half parenthesis of the horizon.
I forget to set my watch back and my bills
are past due and I'm elected to the Chamber
of Commerce, my photo on the front page
of its newsletter, surrounded by the corrupt face
of truth. Nothing has been decided yet a terrible
mistake has become law. I stand for nothing;
I'm an anthology of small ideas. In the dream
the future is outlawed. Even God votes against it.
More from Living in the Past and some commentary in this previous entry.
I have no idea how it got to be 11 a.m. I have accomplished exactly nothing thus far today. Well, other than chasing one cat out of the other's food dish, which hardly counts as she is certain to be back as soon as I am unavailable. Ah well, some flowers.
Must get some exercise. If I do that, I can come home and have sun dried tomato and basil hummus for lunch, right? Happy birthday