tburke4@san.n.com

Sand In The Icy Tray

Sand in the ice tray
is the clue
to what I dreamed
last night,
lost at a stoplight
and thirsty as old farm land.
 
Maybe it was about
sour coffee
keeping me in
fitful states
after slumber drops from
a ceiling of cracked paint,
things that go against
the nature
of how we think about
a life that is lost on us when
faucets and drips and water glasses ruin the
symmetry with demands before the table,
the ruling body, the
chair that are removed and replaced before my feet hit the floor with first
light.

Yet in dreams , where brothers, sisters and
friends
continue to walk
through doors 
in long halls
seen as though in gallery paintings
under night lights and gas lamps,
I see all the women
you've become
in all the different dresses
and pant suits
begging for water,
under a sun always about to explode.

Waking again
in the center of the darkest spot in the room
two hours
to go until sun rise,
the pipes singing
the song of running water,
too thirsty to sleep,
too tired to dream,
to sleepy to move.

copyright, Ted Burke.

All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.