I dreamt that we took a taxi
the bald russian treated us like thieves
the highway was covered with hats
all emblazoned with maple leaves
the russian kept clicking his stungun battery
“now it’s dead” he said *click* “now it’s alive”
I memorized the taxi’s registration number
one-seven-E-A-one-five
the russian insisted it was a real gun
my friend, soto voce: “Leave it alone!”
I scoffed: “SG makes real guns now?”
“besides,” I said, “I can smell the ozone”
the driver pulled into a construction site
then into a place too dark to see
under my breath I chanted:
“one-seven-E-A-fifteen”
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Tags: Poetry
May 27, 2009 at 4:11 am |
Dreams are freaky. It’s all the little things that make them so interesting. Like the hats with maple leaves and that registration number.
I am glad you’re blogging again!!