I dreamed unquietly of Lou – just some
old guy I remembered from school, always
alone and pacing the halls, waiting waiting
waiting for us small ones to depart so
he could in the dusk do as he needed.
Except in the dream he had already begun –
in spite of the window-slanted noon sun
failing to warm me, failing to light the
fleeing corners of the cavernous linoleum throat
in which only Lou and I remained, he standing
much taller than reality and yet hunched over,
for he had no mop – just far too many soggy
beard fingers sloshing water from his
semblance of a mouth as he scoured the plane
to a shiny empty with his face. When he looked
at me, I could plainly see the drowned dust balls
caught on him, and their miniscule mountains,
coastlines . . .
Long after waking I can still smell
his dank salt-water breath.